


Scrambled

by robotboy



Series: Butterscotch [10]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Deaf Character, Established Relationship, Holidays, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Poly, Religious Cults, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-11-08 10:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17979611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: A resurrection and an exodus.





	1. Sympathies on a Business Card

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta squad! purplecelery, fiertedubearn, and snufflyphoenix are invaluable.

Silver hesitates. A couple of envelopes are sticking out of the mailbox, so he grabs them. The lights are on upstairs, so Flint’s home, but he mustn’t have checked. Silver sighs, letting himself in.

Flint’s been distracted lately. Last week marked the ten-year anniversary of Thomas’ death, and Flint has moved through the days around it like a ghost. Silver has been trying his best, but there’s nothing that can make something like that better. So he tries to just _be there_ when Flint’s gaze drifts away, or he wakes up gasping in the night, or gets hit by tears out of nowhere. A lot of conversations end with Flint looking down, distracted. Silver tries to push when he thinks Flint needs it, but but he also wonders if sometimes what Flint needs is to let it happen. At least Miranda’s coming tonight, and she understands.

Silver’s always irritable in April, anyway. It’s Thursday, and that means admitting to the fact that he really isn’t going to find a Seder before the weekend. He never does, but he never gets rid of the unsettled feeling either. There’s no work to distract him until Tuesday, and this is one holiday where smoking a blunt and playing video games doesn’t really cut it. He throws his towel in the laundry and heads upstairs to the kitchen.

 _Good swim?_ Flint asks, leaning away from the coffee machine to catch a kiss. Silver nods. Flint makes them coffees while Silver sits at the table and sorts through the mail. One envelope slips out of his grasp and drops on the floor. Silver twists in his chair to pick it up and realises why: it’s a regular-sized envelope, but it feels almost empty. There are UK stamps on it. _James Flint_ is written in black pen, and the townhouse address is in blue. Silver turns it over. On the back, printed directly on the envelope, is _From the office of Peter Ashe, Member for Parliament._ Silver feels the edges of a business card loose inside.

Silver’s still staring at it when Flint sets a cup in front of him.

 _What is it?_ Flint asks. Silver hands over the envelope without a word.

Flint sneers as he reads the back. He tosses it onto the pile of recycling.

 _Fuck him,_ Flint says. _I don’t want anything from him._

 _Are you sure?_ Silver asks. _I think it’s—_

_There’s nothing he can say to me._

Silver nods, not wanting to overstep. Ink leaps up onto the table and Silver almost jumps out of his skin. She goes sidling over to Flint and puts a paw on his wrist, trying valiantly to get her nose in his coffee mug. Flint’s face softens as he shakes his head at her, keeping the mug just out of her reach. She balances on his chest and cranes her neck as high as she can. She ends up trying to cram herself against Flint’s cheek while he’s drinking, and Silver can see Flint shaking with laughter. Flint puts his mug down and picks her up with both hands, burying his face in her fur. She wraps her paws around his head and Silver expects that in a minute she’ll be making biscuits in his hair. True to form, Flint is prying her off and cringing a minute later, but at least now he’s smiling.

He asks Silver about the Dungeons and Dragons campaign, and Silver updates him on how the party successfully charmed their way out of a goblin lair. Ink wanders between them begging for coffee. She climbs over Silver’s shoulders but seems disappointed by his hair up in a bun, still damp, so she goes to Flint’s lap to stare balefully at both of them. She’s just starting to grow heavy-eyed when the doorbell flashes. Flint gets up and Ink goes rocketing to the top of the stairwell to see who’s coming. Silver hovers in the kitchen, not wanting to crowd the stairs. When Miranda comes up she gives Silver a long hug. Her eyes are red, and Silver glances over to see Flint’s are too. Silver offers to take her bag up to the bedroom, but she insists, and Flint goes with her.

Silver’s eyes keep coming back to the pile of recycling. He taps his fingers on the table. It would be prying. If Flint doesn’t want it opened, it’s not Silver’s to open.

It felt like a business card. What the hell kind of person sends sympathies on a business card?

Silver gets to his feet before he drives himself any crazier. He fills the kettle for Miranda, and tidies up everything in the kitchen. Flint and Miranda reappear.

 _Tea?_ Silver offers. Miranda nods gratefully.

Flint’s getting that distant look on his face as Silver gets the water heating.

 _Miranda, you sit down,_ Silver suggests. To Flint, he says: _Why don’t you help me with the tea?_

Flint blinks, focusing on Silver’s face. _Yes,_ he replies.

As he passes Silver, he squeezes his hand with gratitude. Silver gives him a small smile of encouragement.

 _I’m going to take out the trash,_ Silver tells him. _I’ll put on the laundry while I’m down there._

 _Alright,_ Flint meets his eye properly. _Thank you._

Silver heads downstairs. He tosses the trash and looks at the papers in his hand. The envelope is right at the top.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters to himself. He dumps it with the rest of the recycling and turns to the washing machine. There’s a pile of towels ready to go in, so he grabs the one he used today and sets the load going.

The UK stamp is peeking out from the corner of the recycling.

 _‘Fuck,’_ he says again.

He snatches it up and pokes his thumb in the corner of the envelope. The seal rips unevenly, and Silver almost shoves it back in the pile. But he finds the sharp edge of the card, and he can’t stand not knowing.

It _is_ a business card. It’s a little bent in the corners. There’s a pixelated mountain that looks like old clipart. The clunky font reads:

**Mercy Pines Academy**

Underneath is a phone number: a US landline. Silver bites his lip. He gets his phone out and googles the name. The first few results seem random, but the fourth one catches his eye. It’s a residential school in New Mexico, and there’s a preview line about _exclusive faith-based teaching for the deaf._

‘What the _fuck,’_ he shoves his phone in his pocket. If this is Ashe’s idea of sympathy, Silver sees why Flint threw it away.

He doesn’t think of it again for an hour, when he calls the local burger place and the Mercy Pines page is still open on his phone. He places the order, and offers to pick the food up while Flint and Miranda stay home.

He opens the Mercy Pines page while he’s walking. While there’s a 2019 date on the news section, the site looks like it hasn’t been redesigned since phones could open websites. He figures out it’s a K-8 school: does Ashe think Flint and Miranda have children? That they need work? He follows a link titled IF YOUR CHILD IS DEAF and finds assurances that they will be taught American Sign Language under Christian principles. A little more poking around and he finds these Christian principles are specific to the Order of Merciful Duty, which sounds like total bullshit. But it sounds like _familiar_ bullshit. Bullshit Flint has talked about before.

He starts looking through the pictures. They’re mostly low-resolution photographs of the New Mexico wilderness around the Academy. There’s one of a lake with a handful of people standing off to one side. One is tall and blonde, gesticulating emphatically to the person next to him.

Silver’s going crazy. He’s falling down one of his conspiracy holes, when this is about _real_ people. But he swears he’s seen the man before. And Ashe sent the information.

If he’s wrong, it’s going to destroy everything he has with Flint. But if he’s right, and he doesn’t say anything…

He can’t be wrong.

He swears profusely in ASL and opens the door to Big Louie’s Burgers. His order is already on the counter, so he pays and starts the walk home.

It’s still afternoon in New Mexico. He taps the number on the webpage before he can think the better of it.

‘Mercy Pines Academy general office, how may we help you today?’

‘Hi there,’ Silver puts on his best American accent. ‘Sorry to catch you so late. I’m just helping my sister find a school for her son and we’re very interested in your Academy.’

He walks slowly while they transfer his call to admissions. Silver is greeted by a bubbly-voiced woman called Nancy-Ann, and he repeats his lie again.

‘My nephew is Deaf,’ he explains. ‘And so is my sister.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Nancy-Ann.

‘Thank you,’ he replies, pulling a face at his phone. ‘I’m just helping her make some phone calls. She was very persuaded by your ASL kindergarten program, and of course the faith-based learning.’

Nancy-Ann gives him an extensive spiel about the healing powers of the gospel being the next best thing to _hearing_ the gospel. He imagines the violence with which Flint would murder her.

‘That’s _wonderful,’_ he says, his own voice sounding like a television commercial in his ears. ‘Can I ask how many years of experience your teachers have?’

Nancy-Ann assures him that the primary-level teachers are all fully accredited (by organisations that sound less-than-official) and have over a decade of experience. The ASL curriculum is taught by a mix of Deaf and Hearing teachers. Silver tries to keep his breathing steady.

‘Oh, and it’s very important to my sister and her husband that the boy continues to have a strong male influence in his life. We’ve been looking for schools where his primary classroom experience won’t be too female-dominated,’ he wrinkles his nose as he says it.

Nancy-Ann promises this won’t be the case, and Silver resists replying with _of course._

‘One last question,’ Silver says. ‘And I know this one’s a long shot, but everything’s just sounding so _perfect_ so far and I have to ask. My brother-in-law is English, and he’s _really_ hoping my nephew might have someone to talk to that knows BSL, so he doesn’t get rusty between holidays. I’ve been asking at every school but I keep telling this guy: you’re in America, right? Not a chance. Faith comes first, you know?’

Of course Nancy-Ann knows. _But,_ and she’s _so pleased_ to tell him this, she’s pretty sure there’s one BSL speaker who teaches kindergarten to second grade levels! Silver masks his racing heartbeat with relief that the pedantic brother-in-law will get off his back.

’Thank you, Nancy-Ann, you’ve been such a help. It sounds like just the _perfect_ place for…’ his mind goes completely blank. He holds up the bag of takeout and looks at the label. ‘Louie. Now, if we wanted to visit the school and confirm it’s what we’re looking for, when would be a good time?’

‘Well, our next open day is Sunday, where prospective families can join us in Easter worship,’ Nancy-Ann says. ‘I know that’s soon, and we are very remote. We don’t have another date scheduled yet, but of course we can arrange an inspection if you call ahead.’

’That sounds _amazing,_ Nancy-Ann,’ Silver puts the phone on his shoulder to open the front door of the townhouse. ‘I’ll speak to my sister immediately. Will you be available over the long weekend?’

Nancy-Ann tells him all staff live on campus, and will only be unavailable during religious services. Silver shakes his head, thanks Nancy-Ann, and takes the burgers upstairs. He slips his phone back into his pocket before entering the kitchen. It’s easy to focus on the burgers, and Silver wolfs his down before it gets cold. Then Miranda updates them on her dementia research. Silver keeps his face objectively interested as she talks about the importance of sign language in early education. Flint is busy feeding Ink, then Miranda excuses herself to the bathroom. When she’s gone, Flint turns to lean against the kitchen counter.

 _What is it?_ he asks.

Silver used to be so good at keeping secrets.

He takes a deep breath, and looks Flint in the eye. _Promise me you won’t say anything until I’m finished._

Flint looks warily at him. _Alright._

 _I opened the envelope,_ he says.

Flint’s eyebrows shoot up.

 _I should be sorry,_ Silver says. _But I’m not. Because you’ll want to know what I found._

Flint’s hands are working like he wants to say something.

 _Peter Ashe sent you a business card for a place in New Mexico called Mercy Pines Academy,_ Silver says. _I looked it up. It’s an Order of Merciful Duty school, and they have a Deaf program. I called them._

 _When—_ Flint starts, then stops himself. He holds both hands up and gestures for Silver to continue.

 _While I was getting dinner,_ Silver says. _I just… I don’t know, once I started pulling at it, I couldn’t stop. They have a Deaf primary school teacher, and he knows BSL._

A muscle in Flint’s face twitches like he’s barely reining in his fury.

 _I don’t know if it’s anything,_ Silver says. _But I wanted to tell you. I had to tell you._

The air is so thick Silver could cut it with a knife.

 _Are you done?_ Flint asks. Silver doesn’t flinch. He nods.

 _Why?_ The question almost bursts out of Flint. _You had_ ** _no right._**

Silver swallows. _I know that. I do. But when have I ever left well enough alone? If it was nothing, I wouldn’t have said anything—_

 _—but you’d still have_ ** _done_** _it!_ Flint interrupts him.

 _What if it’s something?!_ Silver asks. _What if it is, and we did nothing?_

Flint scrubs a hand over his face. His fingers swipe his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. _You can’t_ ** _fix_** _this! I didn’t ask you to. There are some things that just can’t be fixed._

 _That’s not what I’m doing,_ Silver insists. _I’m just—_

A hand lands on Silver’s shoulder and startles him. Miranda holds him in place with an insistent grip. When Silver stops shaking, she lets go.

 _Flint,_ Miranda says. _There was no death certificate._

Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Silver certainly doesn’t.

 ** _What?_** Flint’s lip curls.

 _I fought for_ ** _months,_** Miranda says. _With Thomas’ father, with the bureaucracy, with Peter. But we were here, they were in England. At first it was a cock-and-bull story about the Hamiltons’ religious beliefs overriding the paperwork. Then phone calls someone would forget to make. But I felt like I couldn’t take off my ring until—until I saw it there, in writing._

 _And you never_ ** _told_** _me?_ Flint snarls.

 _James, you were in_ ** _pieces,_** she reminds him. _It was just a piece of paper, in the end. Peter told me that._

 _Well, he’d have a good fucking reason,_ Flint retorts. _If we believed Silver’s theory._

 _That’s what I’m saying,_ Miranda touches Silver’s arm gently. _James. We can’t afford to be wrong about this._

Flint launches himself off the counter and turns away. Silver watches his shoulders rise and fall. Silver gets up, gingerly touching Flint’s arm. Flint flinches away, and Silver gives him space, but he makes sure Flint’s watching him when he says:

_There’s a picture._

Miranda takes the phone from his hands the moment he gets it out.

 _It’s not good quality,_ Silver explains. _And I didn’t know him. But you should see._

Miranda scowls in frustration, pinching to zoom closer. Flint has his hand over his mouth, but his eyes are darting over Silver’s screen.

 _It’s so small,_ Miranda passes the phone to Flint. _It could be anyone._

Flint’s eyes are shining. He stares for a long time, not saying anything. When he finally puts the phone down, he looks at Silver.

_He’s in New Mexico?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Order of Merciful Duty and Mercy Pines are totally fictional, invented for this story.


	2. They Put Crack in the Syrup

Flint wakes up with his head in a vice.

He tenses his jaw until his ears pop. The world comes rushing back in staggered sensations: the crick in his neck from sleeping; Miranda’s fingers tight around his on the armrest; the disequilibrium of the plane descending into DC. He takes a staggered breath and blinks at the opaque grey of the window. He focuses on the circle of frost at the bottom of the glass, and the streaks of raindrops that dart diagonally across the pane. The pressure relents when he clicks his ears again.

He looks over at Miranda, and she stares back. She looks exhausted, and she releases his hand from her iron grip.

 _Two more,_ she says, leaning on the headrest.

He nods. _Then the drive._

_Are you sure—_

_—I’ll be fine,_ Flint tells her. He has to be fine. They have to do this. They _are_ doing this.

It’s a two-hour wait in DC, then a second flight to Dallas. From Dallas, the third flight is two hours to Tucson. They’ve booked a night in Tucson beforea six-hour drive over the New Mexico border. Mercy Pines is on Winter Mountain, as are the Swallow Ridge Cabins, where Silver called this morning to make a booking.

 _If you’re doing this,_ Silver had said. _Do it now._

They had debated in circles for most of Thursday night. Silver argued that the open day would be the best opportunity to show up under the guise of interested parents. Miranda had worried that they couldn’t simply depart for the New Mexico wilderness tomorrow. And Flint had surprised himself by asking: _Why not?_

Because he can’t shake the feeling that _if_ Thomas is there—and his brain grinds to a halt every time he considers it—Flint couldn’t live with himself if he waited another second. And going by the way Silver had twisted his laptop around to show the airline booking page, he knew it too.

A frenzy of planning, a restless night’s sleep, and a substantial chunk of Flint’s savings later, he’s here. The tarmac of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport.

 _Landed in DC,_ he texts Silver. _Everything ok?_

 _nothing new here_ , Silver replies. _inks misses you_

Silver sends a picture of Ink, who looks perfectly content nestled in Silver’s hair. Flint sends back heart-eyes.

_it’s really quiet here without you_

_No change, then?_ Flint smiles at his phone. Ink and Silver are snuggled up on the couch exactly where he’d be if he wasn’t on his way to Dallas. It’s been a long time since his heart pulled him in such different directions.

The concourse bottlenecks, crowded with hundreds of people traveling on Good Friday. Miranda grabs his arm and steers him through it.

 _I love you,_ he writes to Silver. _I’ll message you from the gate_

He slips his phone in his pocket and walks with Miranda.

 _Hungry?_ he asks.

She eyes the Starbucks skeptically.

 _Beggars can’t be choosers,_ she says.

 _They’re not_ ** _that_** _bad,_ Flint smiles. _At least they’re reliable._

 _You just like the syrup,_ Miranda raises an eyebrow.

 _They put crack in it,_ Flint explains, getting out his phone. _Now, what do you want?_

Flint types out the note for tea and two sandwiches, and the explanation that they’re Deaf. The barista fumbles through some basic signs, and it makes Flint smile more than it should.

Miranda fusses over removing the teabag when it’s finished steeping. She’s fidgeting. He reaches out to soothe her and her head snaps up in alarm.

 _We don’t have a kid!_ she says.

Flint blinks at her.

 _‘Louie,’_ Miranda clarifies. _How are we going to explain not having him with us?_

Flint chews his lip, thinking. If Silver were here, he’d have Louie’s alibi already planned out. He probably knows what colour pyjamas Louie wears, while Flint still vaguely imagines a burger when he thinks about it.

 _Maybe he’s sick,_ Miranda continues. _He caught a bug while we were driving, and we couldn’t bring him._

 _Are we leaving him alone at the cabin?_ Flint asks.

 _My mother’s taking care of him,_ Miranda suggests. _She’s traveling with us._

Flint nods, memorising the story.

 _Christ,_ says Miranda, and she takes a long drink of tea. _What the hell are we going to do?_

 _We just… keep up the illusion,_ Flint guesses. _One foot in front of the other._

It feels like falling. It’s the same as when they first lost Thomas: a choking, dizzying panic of being lost in a storm. But it’s felt something like that for ten years, Flint thinks. He clung to Miranda and Hal to stay afloat. Only recently had it started to feel less like drifting. Like there was a direction again.

And now, this, plunging him back into the depths.

 _I don’t know what to do if he’s really there,_ Miranda says, tears welling in her eyes. _I don’t know how I’m going to react._

 _Neither do I,_ Flint says. _I don’t know how we_ ** _could_** _know._

Miranda puts words to the fear that has gripped him strongest since he saw the picture, since his heart had stung with hope: _What if he’s different?_

 _He will be,_ Flint shakes his head, preparing himself for it as much as Miranda. _If he’s there… he’d have to be._

She nods, cradling her tea for a moment before sipping it.

 _Have you wondered..._ Flint asks hesitantly. _What if_ ** _we’re_** _different?_

 _He’ll know us,_ Miranda assures him.

 _He’ll know_ ** _you,_** Flint replies. _You’re his wife._

 _He will know you too,_ Miranda says firmly. _Of everything in the world, he was always most certain of you._

Now it’s Flint welling up. He takes a bite of his sandwich. It’s tasteless, but that’s not Starbucks’ fault. Miranda finishes her tea, and makes short work of her own sandwich before they head to the gate.

Flint opens his phone again, remembering his promise to text Silver. He realises in his haste to write the Starbucks order he’d missed a message: _we love you too_

Flint sends a string of hearts, and: _At the gate._

He thinks about writing ‘I miss you,’ but that might—he doesn’t know. That might be foolish, when he’s only been gone for a few hours. Only a few hours since he was held tight in Silver’s arms, as Silver brushed his lips over Flint’s forehead, calming him from another dream about drowning. Less time than that since Silver had pushed a home-made triple-shot latte with butterscotch into his hands, and said _Happy Friday_ like it was any other day.

Flint wakes up before dawn in the shitty hotel in Tucson. He grabs his phone and types _I miss you_ even though he can barely see the screen. It jostles Miranda, who rolls over and rests her hand on his shoulder. He’d forgotten she liked to sleep on his right, while Silver always takes the left. Miranda tugs the blanket and settles. He stares at her for a few moments, then picks up his phone again and types _Wedding rings_ in the reminders before falling asleep again.

He sends another _I miss you_ to Silver at breakfast, and again when his morning coffee is vastly inferior to Silver’s. Silver sends back _miss you toos_ and _i love yous_ and pictures of Ink. Flint sends another as they get in the rental car, along with assurances that he dealt with the clerk just fine, and he only slightly wants to throw his hearing aids out the window.

The ring sits awkwardly where he holds the steering wheel. His eye is drawn to it as he drives the long, empty stretches of the I-10. The relentless sun glints off the metal, even as the light drops behind them in the late afternoon. The distraction doesn’t matter: the road is empty as far as the eye can see. They pass nothing but scrub and low hills for miles. The terrain gets rockier and the road inclines so gradually, he doesn’t really notice they’re already in the mountains until a hairpin turn reveals a sheer cliff dropping away on one side. Flint slows, surprised, and he pulls into a rest stop at the top of the hill.

The Arizona desert sprawls endlessly below them as they stretch their legs. Flint leans on the hood of the car, cracking his knuckles. He twists the false ring, tugging it over the first joint before slipping it back into place. He watches the last rays of the sunset turn everything into pinks and yellows, blurring the line between the sand and the clouds. To the east, where they’re headed, the mountains appear as deeper shadows against the encroaching night. There are no stars in the haze.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. The last _I miss you_ he sent didn’t go through.


	3. The Mutant Hillbillies Died of Old Age

Silver stares zombie-like at his instagram feed. The little check-mark is smugly telling him he’s already seen every friend he knows having a much better weekend than him. He sighs, dropping the phone on his chest and looking up at Ink. She stops kneading his hair and presses her paw to his forehead.

_Thank you,_ he tells her. _Much appreciated._

She bumps her head against his fingers until he scratches her ear. He can’t help but smile when she twists her neck enthusiastically.

_What do you do all day when we’re not here?_ he asks her. _Is it always this boring?_

She massages his face with her claws.

_I’m not clingy, you know,_ he tells Ink. _I’m a notoriously un-clingy person. In fact, I’m not even known to be un-clingy, because nobody is close enough to me to know how un-clingy I am. Except you, obviously. Assuming you understand me._

She licks him industriously with her raspy little tongue.

_Yes, that’s what I mean, Inks,_ he tickles between her shoulder blades. _That’s clingy._

He looks at his phone again. Flint last messaged him from a town called Cochise in Arizona, unsure how much longer he’d have service.

‘Go on and save yourself: take it out on me...’ he sings at Ink. She stares at him with the same offended face she has every time he serenades her.

He commits a full thirty minutes to climbing a mountain and collecting korok seeds in Breath of the Wild, humming Audioslave the whole time. Ink follows his progress with interest. His phone buzzes and he flails, almost knocking her off the couch.

_Is Miranda with you?_

It’s from Eleanor. He scoops Ink back up and apologises, unlocking his phone to reply.

_she had a family emergency,_ Silver explains, which is more or less the truth. _why?_

_I was trying to message her,_ Eleanor replies.

_she’s out of cell range,_ Silver tries to be elusive. _is it important?_

_We were going to have dinner tonight,_ Eleanor tells him. _She didn’t mention it?_

She did not. Silver is going to ask Miranda about it if— _when_ she comes back.

_Is everything ok?_ Eleanor asks.

_yeah i’m just a bit bored,_ Silver replies.

_I meant with her family_

_SORRY,_ Silver writes. _i don’t know yet. i’ll send her your best_

There’s a pause.

_Would you tell me if she was ghosting me?_

_no,_ Silver confesses. _but she’s not the type. they really did leave yesterday morning_

_Flint went too?_

Silver winces. He’d meant to leave that part out. _that’s why i’m bored_

_Well the reservation was at Firenze at 8,_ Eleanor writes. _If you want dinner_

_sure,_ Silver answers. _good choice_

Dinner is six hours away. Silver looks up to see Link’s fallen off the mountain. He sighs and turns off the Switch.

_I’m sure he’s fine,_ he tells Ink. _I’m sure they haven’t fallen off a mountain or been murdered by ghost hitchhikers. They’re probably at the creepy isolated woods school by now. It might not even be a cult. I bet nobody has ripped out anybody’s heart and screamed:_ ‘Kali Ma!’

Ink seems bolstered by this.

_I doubt there’s even a dead body at the bottom of that lake. Aliens haven’t landed in New Mexico since since 1947. The gas station they stopped at was probably owned by Shell. All the mutant hillbillies from the Manhattan Project tests would have died of old age by now._

He has to stop. He’s going to give the kitten nightmares. He thumbs through his contact list, pausing at Madi. He already knows she’s out hiking with Eme, eating picnics in the woods and not worrying about his problems. Madi would punch a mutant hillbilly in the face. He scrolls down to the next number and dials. After three rings, Max answers.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Or well, nothing urgent. I just felt like talking to you. Are you free?’

‘Mhmm,’ she says, and Silver hears her moving around. ‘Are you well?’

‘I think I’m going crazy,’ he tells her.

‘I agree,’ Max’s voice is light. ‘But I asked if you’re well.’

‘… no,’ Silver admits. ‘I haven’t talked to anyone except the cat in two days.’

‘Where’s Flint?’

Silver swallows, picking at the dirt under his fingernails.

‘Silver, don’t call me just to breathe down the phone,’ Max says. ‘It’s creepy.’

‘Flint’s dead ex-boyfriend might not actually be dead but maybe got abducted by a cult in New Mexico and now Flint’s gone to New Mexico to rescue him and I don’t think he’s ever coming back.’

‘Did you just say a _cult?’_

‘They might not be a cult,’ Silver says. ‘They might just be a religious boarding school with an ableist-sounding Deaf program in the middle of the wilderness with no cell service and a terrifyingly bubbly admissions officer called Nancy-Ann.’

‘That _does_ sound like a cult,’ Max agrees.

_‘It really sounds like a cult,’_ Silver exhales. ‘And they might have a teacher there who everyone thought was dead, but is actually Flint’s ex, but not his ex like they broke up, like Flint thought he died, but really he was abducted and maybe brainwashed by—‘

‘—Silver, I also don’t want you to call me just to _not breathe_ down the phone,’ Max says slowly.

‘Max, I’m freaking out,’ Silver tells her. ‘I just keep thinking if I’d never gone looking for the stupid mountain cult I’d never have been in this situation.’

‘Are you suggesting you’d rather have kept it secret from him?’

‘No, because once I knew, I told him,’ Silver says. ‘I’m not a monster.’

‘So you’d have left this not-actually-dead man stuck in a cult?’ Max asks. ‘Assuming that’s what happened.’

_‘Of course I wouldn’t,’_ Silver insists. ‘I’m just being selfish. And I know I am, because I told Flint to go and now I feel shitty that he _left.’_

‘And you’re aware of how unreasonable that sounds?’

‘Yes, I am,’ Silver slumps into the cushions. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just... scared. And he doesn’t need this from me right now. This guy—‘

‘—the undead man? Does he have a name?’

‘It’s Thomas,’ Silver says. ‘He was like... the big ex. The long-lost love. The one that got away. Except he died, or got abducted. You know.’

‘And now he’s back?’

‘Maybe,’ Silver scrubs a hand in his hair. ‘Maybe not. That’s what Flint's gone to find out.’

‘When is he coming back?’ Max asks.

Silver whistles through his teeth. ‘It was a one-way ticket.’

Max doesn’t reply for a moment. Silver stares at the ceiling, inhaling, willing his lip not to tremble.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. ‘I’m just being dramatic.’

‘You are,’ Max says. ‘But it would appear to be the appropriate response to a dramatic situation.’

‘Okay,’ Silver nods, pushing his hair out of his eyes and taking a deep breath. ‘Okay. I think I needed to hear that.’

‘My next mocha is free,’ Max says.

‘For a week,’ Silver promises. ‘And extra vanilla.’

‘Good,’ she says.

’So how are things for you? How are all the Jacks?’

‘Jack himself is in the doghouse,’ Max says. ‘He gave Charlotte hell about how her new UI colour scheme didn’t fit with his promotional campaign. But it’s an accessibility issue, so Jack has to sulk about losing his pretty designs. Anne told him to shove them up his ass, and now he’s looking at custom dildo sites where he can get one made with his colours. I pay him to do this.’

She sounds exasperated, but fond. Silver smiles. ’He’s dildo shopping on the clock?’

‘Well, we lost a major advertiser when their new CMO turned out to be, and I quote Anne, _a puritanical fucksack with a cunt full of cobwebs_. So if Jack can lure us a sponsorship from a dildo manufacturer, he’s back in favour.’

Silver doesn’t _revel_ in stories of other people’s drama, but he’s not above _enjoying_ it. He needs the distraction, after all, even if he doesn’t know what a UI is (or a CMO). Max regales him with anecdotes. The arguments over who gets first shower. Anne’s attempts to teach the cat—Ink’s brother—to ‘sick ‘em.’ Mark’s surprise birthday breakfast.

‘Sounds like a crowded house,’ Silver comments.

‘Yes,’ Max agrees. ‘It can be hard to find a little peace when you need it.’

There’s a pause. Then they both speak at once, Silver asking: ‘Do you still—‘ and Max asking: ‘How did he—‘

‘Sorry,’ Silver insists. ‘You first.’

_‘How_ did they fake a man’s death?’ Max asks.

Silver shakes his head and answers as best he can. He lets Max forget his question.

He hangs up after they’ve killed an hour and the worst of his paranoia. Flint and Miranda aren’t going to get disembowelled by cultists. They’re going to be fine. They’re going to find Thomas and come home overjoyed.

_It’s like living your life indoors,_ Flint had told him. _But then someone takes you outside, and you first see the sun. You don’t even know not to look at it. And it’s so bright, you can’t describe how it feels._

It’s not so hard to imagine: Flint has photos of Thomas, tall and blonde and smiling. He was bright, like Flint said, and in pictures everyone around him seemed drawn to him. It was the same in the Mercy Pines picture. There wasn’t just a physical likeness Silver had recognised, but that same gravity.

_I didn’t believe the things people said about love, until I met him,_ Flint had said. _It was… like if a person could shine._

And then he’d blushed and said: _That’s what I mean. It’s ridiculous._

_A little bit,_ Silver had smiled at him.

_You’re like that too, you know._

_You just think that because you call me Silver._ He’d grinned, and Flint had dug his fingers into Silver’s sides for the pun. And they had wrestled until they fell off the bed.

Thomas was a story always told in past tense.


	4. An Alibi For Louie Burger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole education system is wildly fictionalised, which is apparently how unaccredited religious schools work anyway, so yeah.

Flint needs a coffee.

He’d had the foresight to buy a can of instant in Tucson, and the two he’s had are doing the job but _god_ do they taste awful. He sets down the scratched tin mug on the laminated table and turns back to the ironing board. Getting the creases out of his shirt is a Sisyphean task: every time he pulverises one side, the other seems as rumpled as when he got it out of the suitcase. He digs the corner of the iron into the collar, determined to look as starched as the most egregious god-fearing stereotype he can imagine.

Miranda emerges from the shower and takes her bright green sundress out of the wardrobe.

 _I haven’t seen you wear that in a while,_ Flint smiles.

 _I had a date,_ Miranda’s face drops. _Which I didn’t cancel…_

Flint gives her a sympathetic shrug. _I’m sure they’ll understand._

She shakes her head. _I hope so. Wednesday feels like a year ago._

She’s right. He emailed Silver this morning, following two he sent last night. He figures his phone will send them through when it finds a carrier, rather than just bounce messages back to him. He’s not optimistic: neither he nor Miranda have had cell service since they crossed the New Mexico border, and it’s not the kind of cabin that comes with wi-fi.

The collar is so stiff it feels like it’s choking him. It’s a forty-minute drive up the winding mountain road, with a turn-off he almost misses until Miranda grabs him by the arm and points out the signpost among the trees.

Finally, they reach the gate. It’s flanked by a high wooden fence and security cameras. A man in a suit waves them through. Flint’s throat tightens. He had imagined concrete, with razor wire. Guard dogs, and spotlights.

He had imagined the things it would take to keep Thomas from escaping and finding them.

As he follows the handmade _Easter Worship!_ signs toward the parking lot, he thinks it through. No communications except landline phones. The nearest town is an hour’s drive from here. Cell phone service is further than that. There’s no way out of here without help.

Even within the walls, the buildings are scattered between copses of trees. He guesses the busiest one is the church. As he parks, Miranda is craning her neck to look at the people gathering outside. He turns off the engine and pinches the bridge of his nose. They’re both going to be like this all day, he realises.

He squeezes her hand and she startles.

 _One foot in front of the other?_ she asks.

 _One foot in front of the other,_ he repeats.

The moment they’re out of the car, a man in a polo shirt materialises with a folder. He’s speaking aloud, so Flint signs:

_Hello, we’re here for the Easter open day._

The man fumbles around his folder, biting his lip with his veneers.

 _Sorry,_ he replies. _No sign. You Deaf?_

Flint sighs, already bone-weary. He takes his hearing aids out of his pocket and slips them on.

‘—so glad you could find—’ the man has apparently been talking the whole time. Flint catches ‘visiting,’ and asks the man to repeat himself. He talks in rapid-fire circles, far more than Flint can follow, or cares to. Once he’s got the folder open and is flicking through sign-in sheets, Flint points out the one titled PROSPECTIVE PARENTS and takes the folder and pen from him.

‘Just pop your names in, and _oh,_ this must be mother!’

‘She’s Deaf,’ Flint growls, as Miranda approaches.

‘And where’s—‘

‘Ill,’ Flint says, speaking as quickly as polo-shirt. ‘Took a bad turn on the mountain roads, so he’s back at the cabin with his grandmother. We may bring him along tomorrow, if we can arrange that with Nancy-Ann.’

He lets polo-shirt drivel on about the possibility of Nancy-Ann facilitating a Monday inspection and fills out the form. He enters _Louie_ on the form; _John_ for himself and _Mary_ for Miranda. There’s no point getting creative. He stares at the surname section and hastily writes the first thing that comes to mind, and then some bullshit address and number for the family. He shoves the form back into polo-shirt’s hands.

‘Thank you, Mister…’ polo-shirt glances down at the form. ‘Berger?’

‘Burger,’ Flint says. As an afterthought, he adds: ‘It’s German.’

They are shepherded towards the church, where the service is due to start. Miranda spots a crowd of parents using ASL, and greets them as they file inside. Flint is busy glancing around at the security cameras. There are plenty of them—maybe too many to keep their faces obscured. It might be unnecessary caution, but he has to use the restless energy somehow.

He and Miranda sit at a back pew, where it’s less obvious that they’re glancing everywhere. The—pastor? Minister? Priest? Flint never paid attention—gives an emphatic sermon, repeated by an interpreter in stilted ASL. Flint spots another Deaf couple clearly unimpressed by the incompetency. He feels vaguely indignant on Louie’s behalf.

He fiddles with the cuffs of the shirt. Miranda is rigid with tension beside him, still watching the crowd like a hawk. But the sermon drags on, until Flint is shifting for a comfortable position on the hard wooden pew, wishing he could loosen his tie. Finally, there’s movement at the lectern. The other parents begin to stir, sitting forward. Children from the first few pews are herded up to the altar to stand in neat rows, facing the crowd. A piano trills the opening notes of a hymn. Two teachers rise from a crouching position once the children are arranged, their hands raised and ready to conduct the song. One of them is a squat woman with her hair in a braid. The other is tall, with hair a whiter-blonde than Flint remembers.

Miranda’s fingers dig into his arm. Flint doesn’t realise he’s half out of his seat. His blood pounds in his ears as Miranda grips him painfully, forcing him to keep still. He takes a shuddering breath as the teacher leads half the students to sign along, while the other half sing discordantly about salvation.

It’s Thomas.

Flint’s heart is thundering. He’s shaking in Miranda’s grasp. He studies the broad shoulders, the narrow waist, the hint of a beard when they briefly see him in profile.

Flint never imagined him with a beard. Thomas is somehow simultaneously more like himself than Flint could have possibly remembered, and older than Flint ever got to imagine him being. He draws Flint’s eye as effortlessly as he always had, and his presence sucks all the air out of the room. Flint can’t breathe, but he can’t recall how he ever breathed _without_ Thomas there.

Miranda shakes his arm roughly, snapping him out of his daze.

 _We have to calm down,_ she signs unsteadily, hands in her lap.

 _It’s him,_ is all Flint can say.

 _He’s alive,_ she says. _He’s here._

Flint glances up, suddenly afraid that it was a hallucination. But there he is, leading his students. They watch him as avidly as Flint and Miranda do. He was always so charming.

 _Ten years,_ Flint shudders. _How do we explain that we_ ** _left_** _him here for ten years?_

 _What worries me is..._ Miranda says slowly. _What if he doesn’t want to leave?_

Flint stares at her.

 _Look at this place,_ Miranda explains. _It’s fucking Children of the Corn._

 _He’d know us,_ Flint insists. _You said he’d know us._

Miranda nods, wiping her eyes quickly. _You’re right. It’s him. It’s still him._

The performance finishes, and Thomas sits back down. Flint keeps craning to find his head between the rows of people, catching only glimpses. Other students do performances, some in ASL and some in English. The pantomime of the resurrection seems somewhat morbid, but that’s in line with how Thomas once described growing up in Merciful Duty.

 _What do we do when this ends?_ Flint asks.

 _We go along with things,_ she says. _If the parents mingle, we mingle. If there’s a tour, we tour. We keep going until we run into him. Louie is going into his class. We can insist on a meeting if we have to._

Few people in the world have dared to defy Miranda’s insistence. When she draws upon the full weight of her PhD and her posh upbringing and her army of bees, woe betide anyone who stands in her way.

The celebration eventually ends, and everyone is ushered out pew by pew. This means Flint and Miranda are among the first outside, where they are accosted by a woman with the face of a chipmunk and the sweater-vest of the born-again. At least she knows ASL.

 _Waiting for your little one?_ she asks.

 _We’re prospective parents, actually,_ Miranda gives her a dazzling smile. _Our son is home sick._

 _Oh, how terrible to hear_ , the woman says. _I’ll pray for him._

 _That’s so kind of you,_ Miranda tells her. _I’m Mary, and this is my husband, John._

Flint lets himself be the gruff spouse, to cover the strangeness of being called ‘husband.’ _Hello._

 _My name is Barbara,_ she tells them. Flint tries to keep one eye on the people filing out of the church to mill around on the grass. At least Thomas is a head taller than most people and practically glows in the daylight.

Miranda makes small talk with Barbara, gushing about how much they love the school.

 _Aspen is in second grade,_ Barbara tells them. _And I’m just so grateful she can have a proper spiritual education along with ASL._

 _Don’t you miss her when she’s away all term?_ Miranda asks.

 _Oh, yes,_ Barbara says. _But she’s in good hands. Are you worried about your son?_

 _Of course,_ Miranda bites her lip. _But we were both sent to residential schools, and I know it’s best for him in the long run._

Flint nods through all the lies.

 _It really is,_ Barbara gives her a brief hug. Miranda’s eyes briefly widen in alarm, but her pleasant expression resumes when Barbara releases her. _And none of the local schools teach the principles of Mercy._

At that moment, Flint smells barbecue. He’s struck with fleeting skepticism over what kind of meat will be served.

 _How do you find the teachers?_ Flint asks Barbara.

 _Oh, Aspen never stops talking about Tom,_ Barbara says. _Her fingerspelling is so advanced for her age. He really takes the time with them, you know? And it’s so important._

 _It is,_ Miranda agrees. _Do you think you could introduce us?_

 _Oh, you might be waiting a while!_ Barbara laughs. _The prospective parents always want to grill him, but of course he gives his time to the children._

 _Of course he does,_ Miranda says. _Would Aspen give him a good reference?_

_Aspen would tell you he hung the moon! She’s always telling stories Tom taught her in class. She can recite five verses of Genesis, and she’s already learning multiplication. Another year with him and she’ll be ahead of me in math! Your boy will be in good hands with Tom._

_That’s just wonderful,_ Miranda’s eyes are shining with emotion. _Barbara, I’m wondering if you can help me with another question, because I don’t want to alarm staff unnecessarily and you know what it’s like when they’re young and curious..._

Barbara leans forward, drawn into Miranda’s web.

_It’s just that our Louie is such a little explorer, you see, and he’s very attached to his father._

Flint frowns in surprise, trying to guess Miranda’s line of attack. Louie Burger is his shadow, apparently.

 _He’s going to love being up here in the woods... climbing trees, swimming in the lake,_ Miranda explains. _The problem is, he can be a bit of an escape artist. I’m sure it won’t be an issue, but do you think the security here is tight? We want him to get the most out of this beautiful environment, but I always have this worry he’ll get lost..._

 _I’ve never known of any issues,_ Barbara tells them. _The lake is fenced off and I think there’s only the one gate for the campus._

 _That’s a relief,_ Miranda smiles. _It’s just the paranoia talking... I’m so unaccustomed to him being out of my sight. Is the gate monitored, do you know?_

 _It’s usually cameras, I think,_ Barbara says. _But the bolt would be too high for children to reach. Perhaps you should ask, since he’s a climber?_

 _That’s good advice,_ Miranda nods. _I deeply appreciate it._

 _It’s hard saying goodbye to your first,_ Barbara says sympathetically. _But they always come back._

Barbara’s face lights up, and a small girl comes running towards her. Miranda and Flint make brief goodbyes as Barbara kneels to hug Aspen. They weave their way to the barbecue, searching the crowd. They find nothing except under-seasoned burgers and an abundance of religious parents.

As they eat, a number of heads begin turning in one direction. Flint spots a teacher addressing the group, and off to one side, the under-qualified interpreter. They sidle closer to catch:

_... tour of the campus with your child, where they can show you what they’re learning in class and out of it. This will be conducted in small groups, and we will assign prospective and current parents together..._

Thomas is nowhere in sight. Flint and Miranda let themselves be marshalled into a group of parents, all Hearing, but with two Deaf children among them. The younger is shy; the older lights up a little upon realising Flint and Miranda are more fluent in ASL than her own parents. She’s too old to be one of Thomas’, but Miranda manages to find the right kinds of questions: the best thing about this place? Her friends. The worst thing? No internet. Are there field trips, at least? Just hikes, and they’re boring. Miranda and the girl hang back from the group a little, and Flint catches in the corner of his eye: _I bet you could sneak out._

The girl answers with something that looks like: _Lake._

Flint tries not to hover, letting Miranda establish trust with the girl. He moves to the front of the group to better hear the guide, who’s telling them about sporting facilities. They’re taken to the gym, and then the art room.

Flint takes a keener interest in the dormitories: the teachers are housed in the same buildings, to ensure adults are close by at all hours. He dawdles as they’re shown through the boys’ building, trying to guess which locked door would be Thomas’ room. There’s no clue, and he knows in the back of his mind that he’s unlikely to find one. But he catches Miranda’s eye and lingers. Is this where he’s slept for ten years? What books are on his shelf? Does he oversleep like he used to?

Flint is glad the climb back up the hill to the administration building is steep enough to have the others short of breath. It makes him look less panicked. The Deaf girl and the guide seem accustomed to it. Flint misses most of the details about the reception, the principal’s offices, and the rest: the guide doesn’t face them, and he’s not interested in making an effort for Flint to lipread. Finally, the word ‘classroom’ is spoken, and they cross a lawn to another small building. From a glance at the work on the walls, it’s a junior high room. But there’s no teacher. Flint tells himself it’s not a bad sign: it doesn’t mean that all of the classrooms will be empty. He remembers Miranda’s promise to insist on a meeting if necessary. He glares at the posters of pilgrim life (wildly inaccurate) with venom. The guide gives a rough overview of the class structure, trying to prompt Miranda’s new friend into chiming in. The girl is clearly miserable at being asked to vocalise, and she gestures at the posters of pilgrims and Mark Twain until the guide gives up. From there, they’re trotted around the 3-5 classroom, where a pair of teachers describe the mixed ASL-English delivery. Flint steals a glance at Miranda, who makes a so-so motion to indicate her thoughts on the approach. If she were let loose on this place, she’d either publish a paper on it or burn it to the ground—possibly both, one after the other.

They feign interest in the Deaf teacher’s presentation, while Miranda asks probing questions about accessibility. She doesn’t press, however, when it’s time to move on.

The third classroom is the Hearing K-2, led by the squat woman who led the choir in church. She takes the better part of an hour to tell the Hearing parents about how their children will be raised with Merciful Duty. Flint is going to stab someone.

Before the final classroom, they must, of course, stop at the vegetable garden. Even the other parents seem to be struggling to maintain their fascination with the spiritual merits of agriculture. Two seem heartened by the knowledge that their children eat home-grown, GMO-free vegetables, and the area appears to be the tour guide’s forte. Miranda’s friend points at a pumpkin and tells them: _I’m growing this one._

Her parents seem so surprised by her initiative that they start asking her questions, peeling her away from Miranda’s side. Miranda comes back to him and says: _Surely we’re going to run out of school soon._

There is still an entire fucking lake.

It’s scenic. The kind of place he’d go walking with Silver, in other circumstances. It’s fenced off from the rest of campus for the children’s safety. Beside the entrance is a shed full of canoes and lifejackets, and the group follows a trail that circles around the lake’s shore. It’s pretty, the sunlight dancing on the clear water, surrounded on all sides by the pines. Thankfully, they pass the maintenance shed without being shown inside it, although one couple stops to admire an ancient red pickup truck by the back gate. Flint surreptitiously checks the time on his phone, wishing he’d brought his watch. The battery is critical from trying to find a carrier since yesterday. It’s only mid-afternoon.

The loop of the lake eats another half an hour. They take the winding path back, forking left this time at the vegetable patch. The last building stands in a grove of trees, with bright colours visible through the many windows. Flint suddenly drops to the back of the group. Miranda falls in step with him. Of course, the guide beckons them to the front, along with the parents of the shy child. After all, this is the Deaf K-2 classroom.

There are three steps to the door, and Flint stumbles on the first. Miranda catches him and sets him right.

 _I should have shaved,_ he says, as if he can go back and do it now. _He’d—_

 _—Just go inside,_ Miranda orders him.

They shuffle through the doors, past a cloakroom with wobbly names written above each low hook. Everything is oversaturated by the afternoon sun filtering through the windows. Flint suddenly thinks it must be the lack of air at a high altitude. None of this feels real.

It can’t be real, because Thomas is standing in the middle of the room.

Flint can’t stop himself gasping. But the group disperses to look at all the pictures and posters that adorn the walls, and nobody notices. He’s shaking like a leaf. If Miranda weren’t next to him, he’d fall.

Thomas gives them all a warm smile, and says in ASL: _Welcome!_

Everyone returns with polite smiles and waves, and then Thomas’ eyes fall on Flint’s. He tilts his head, mouth falling slightly agape. Then he takes in Miranda, his eyes darting between the pair of them, and his weight shifts as he surges toward them.

Miranda slides herself in front of Flint and shakes Thomas’ hand. Flint realises after a second that it’s lucky she did, because he would have kissed Thomas on the spot. Flint shudders like he’d expected her fingers to slip right through his. As if Thomas wasn’t the most solid person Flint ever met. Flint’s arms hang uselessly, with nothing to do while Miranda captures Thomas’ attention. Flint is sure Thomas understands everything she conveys with the piercing darkness of her stare.

Thomas gives Miranda’s hand a businesslike shake and moves onto Flint. His broad palm claps Flint’s, warm and strong. The thumb presses firmly and Thomas’ left hand comes up to clasp their palms tighter together. Flint is drinking in his face, those deep blue eyes and the new crow’s feet carved around them. The steely streaks in his hair and the subtle quirk of his eyebrow. Thomas squeezes his hand and, hidden under the left palm, his right thumb brushes sweetly over Flint’s skin.

All too soon, it’s snatched away. Flint wants to grab onto Thomas and never, ever let him get an inch away for the rest of his damn life. But Thomas continues on to the other parents, treating each with a handshake as firm and cordial as the first. He sits against the desk and answers the questions of the other prospective parents, far more patient than Flint is with their limited ASL. When he’s conveyed his competence as best he can, he crouches low to greet the shy child. The child hides behind his mother’s knees, and Thomas takes a small origami bird from his desk and offers it. With the mother’s encouragement, the boy takes it from Thomas’ hand. Thomas’ eyes sparkle with delight, and he stands up.

 _Did you have any questions?_ he asks Flint and Miranda.

Flint answers in BSL: _Leave with us._

Thomas nods thoughtfully, as if Flint has asked about learning the alphabet.

 _I couldn’t—not right now,_ he replies, in BSL again. Flint’s shoulders drop, but Thomas continues: _Midnight. There’s a road near the lake._

 _We saw it,_ Miranda tells him. _We’ll be there._

Walking away feels like ripping out a part of himself. He must be mad to turn his back on Thomas again. He is Orpheus leaving Hades, and the vivid classroom behind him already feels like a dream. Miranda moves them swiftly back to the car.

He forges the signature of John Burger, and avoids Miranda’s eyes when she scribbles on the form and smirks. They take a moment in the rental, Miranda finding tissues in her purse and passing them over to Flint. He dries his eyes and takes out his hearing aids, getting cleaned up enough to drive.

 _The back road,_ she says. _We should find it before we come back tonight._

Flint agrees. They drive past the guard at the front gate and feign a wrong turn. There’s a dirt track that follows the campus fence, winding precipitously downhill. Miranda points out a driveway and he jerks the wheel to follow it. Dust kicks up under the car and they come to an abrupt halt at a gate. A small sign reads:

**Mercy Pines: Please Call For Access**

And a number. Miranda pulls out a notepad and sketches a quick map of the gate’s location, making Flint stop at the turn-off on the way back. The dusk is settling in as Flint drives them back to the paved road, and before he realises it, the school has disappeared among the pines.


	5. The Fridge Knows, and it's Judging You

Silver gasps awake as Ink goes scrambling off his chest. He sits up, coughing, fingers following the stinging lines of her claws in his skin. His ears are ringing with cracking sounds, lungs tight with smoke. He stares at the walls of Flint’s room— _his_ and Flint’s room—until they’re wood, not a forest, just wooden. The wildfire in his dream turned the sky red, but the stars outside the window are white again.

He looks at his phone. It’s not even midnight. There’s no messages since Flint’s email last night. It was chatty, or as chatty as could be when the only news was ‘stopped at a diner for a greasy dinner, it’s pretty up in the mountains, service is already patchy but I’ll keep sending these,’ and pictures. He sends back pictures of Ink, but nothing’s different at home to show.

Nothing _looks_ different, anyway.

He sweeps his hair back from where it’s stuck to his face. He counts to twenty in his head, and his heart doesn’t slow down. Sighing, he shuffles to the edge of the bed and starts putting on his leg. Ink weaves in and out between his foot and the prosthetic, rubbing against both indiscriminately. He stops to scratch her ears, then finishes getting the leg attached. The moment he’s done, he strips the bedsheets, bundling them up in a ball. They smell of his sweat, and they’re too damn green for him to look at right now. He gets fresh sheets from the top of the wardrobe, shoving aside his old backpack when it tries to fall on his head. It hits the floor loudly enough to make Ink jump, and he ignores it. He remakes the bed with white sheets, and Ink is soon distracted by the linen fluttering through the air. He takes the green sheets and makes his way downstairs, not bothering with the lights. He dumps them with his t-shirt in the machine, setting them on a timer to be done before morning.

When he turns, his towel and swimming trunks are right in front of him. He pauses. The gym is open until midnight. But his wallet’s in the kitchen and his phone’s in the bedroom. He shrugs, figuring by the time he’s back upstairs, he’ll be tired enough to go back to sleep and forget the idea. Only then he’s in the bedroom, pulling his hair into a tie and rummaging through the drawers for a hoodie and pants. He takes out a few clean t-shirts, leaving half of them on top of the dresser after he chooses one. He grabs his phone and orders an Uber to the gym.

It’s late on a Sunday night, so he’s got twenty minutes to wait. He heads to the kitchen, grabbing his wallet and then tidying away all the junk that ends up on the counter. He’s in the lounge putting books back on the shelf when his ride arrives, so he gets his swimming gear and locks the door, telling Ink to behave while he’s gone.

The pool is different at night. The fluorescent lights make the water turquoise, a hue so lurid he thinks for a split-second after diving that he’s going to hit a solid surface. But it breaks for him like it always does. The sudden chill is welcome after the burning nightmare. He follows the texture of the tiles with his fingertips, smooth-then-scratchy. The points of Ink’s claws sting as his arms stretch, propelling him along the bottom of the pool. A quick glance around confirms there’s no-one else in any of the lanes. He remembers a bored lifeguard on the graveyard shift, so he behaves himself, resurfacing for air before he’s tried to cross the entire length. He cuts fast through the water. He’s almost at the wall before he drops into a steep tumble-turn. He belly-crawls along the depths again, until his body clamours for air. It’s nothing like the dream: cool, controlled, a stream of bubbles left in his wake as he carves through the water. He holds off as long as he can before granting himself sudden reprieve of breaching and gasping. For a moment he’s suspended, supernaturally buoyant above the surface before he crashes back under, body flowing into his fastest stroke. He pushes himself until it aches, water churning around him. At his next turn, he looks up at the vee of ripples left in his wake. He pierces the centre of them, cutting opposing sets through the lane. He’s not keeping time but he knows it must be close to his record for this year. He lets the excess energy burn off until he’s hollow, the tension unwinding in bursts.

It’s been a long time since he swam at night. A long time since he had to. He never remembers his dreams when he sleeps with Flint.

The lifeguard looks relieved when Silver finally climbs out. He doesn’t bother washing his hair: the poor guy on the night shift doesn’t need to kick him out of the showers at closing time. He rinses off quickly, dresses, and orders another ride.

Silver stares at the lopsided moon while he waits. It’s a few days past full, and the black edge of it is beginning to creep back.

Ink is beside herself with joy when he opens the front door. He takes her upstairs and sits her on the kitchen table, where she starts licking her paws and washing her face. He takes a dozen photos and sends them all to Flint, then sticks his head in the fridge. It beeps angrily at him and he realises he’s staring blankly at the shelves of nothing-much while his stomach grumbles. He grabs smoked salmon, cream cheese, and a stale tortilla to wrap it in. It’s not quite what he wanted, but it’s close enough. Flint would have fried potatoes and garnished it with dill and capers, Silver thinks unhelpfully. He licks the briny-fish taste from his fingers, and for a moment he’s a million miles away. His laptop is glaring when he opens it, until he dials the brightness down. Ink comes and sits on the keys, so for a moment he can’t tab away from Google Maps. He’d forgotten it was open: he must have shut the screen on it before his first attempt at going to bed. His eyes slide away from the jagged trail that beckons north, back to Ink.

 _Who’d feed you?_ he asks. He leans over and grabs the last sliver of salmon from the packet, and she gobbles it up.

Ten hours.

He lifts her from the laptop and closes it again, sighing. Clearing up the mess takes no time at all, and the dishes are already stacked. He straightens the throw rugs on the couch and gives everything a quick dusting-off.

Fifty dollars.

It’s too easy to get lost in his own head in the shower. He wrestles shampoo through his hair, scrubbing out the chlorine. It hangs like a dead weight on his scalp, heavy with water. He can’t think of anything to sing. Ink is a monochromatic smudge behind the steamy glass.

A stopover in Boston.

Eventually he rinses himself. He wraps his hair in one towel and his waist in another, shooing Ink from the bathmat while he dries off. The sink is cluttered with his and Flint’s things, so he puts them all away in the cupboards. Flint will have enough on his mind when he gets home: he doesn’t need to deal with mess.

The backpack is still on the bedroom floor. He slips his toothbrush into the front pocket. The t-shirts from the dresser go in the larger pocket, along with a pair of jeans.

He can always take them out in the morning. When ten hours, fifty dollars, and a stopover in Boston might not sound so tempting.

The bedsheets are crisp and white. He turns down the corner, then hesitates. There’s no sense getting them rumpled before Flint gets home. It’s awkward getting downstairs on the crutch, especially with Ink following him curiously. He curls up on the couch, pulling a neatly-folded throw rug over himself for the night.


	6. Everything in New Mexico was Named by Goths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, they're real place names.
> 
> Warning for this chapter: conversion therapy is discussed in this chapter, but not in any detail.

Flint rubs his hands together, feeling the knuckles creak. It doesn’t matter how many times he checks his phone: it’s still five minutes to midnight. They’d have been here earlier, but the turn-off was invisible in the dark. He’d kept a death-grip on the wheel as they crept back along the road, headlights low and barely illuminating anything. They’d finally found it with fifteen minutes to spare, and there’s been nothing to do except pace around the car in the gloom. The lights are off to avoid suspicion, but the moon casts a decent glow between the trees. It’s chilly, and Flint hopes that jiggling with impatience will keep him warm.

Thomas had never been less than ten minutes late to anything. They’re more likely to encounter a bear out here than Thomas running early. Unless he’s changed, discipline finally drilled into him by a decade in the Order.

He can’t think like that. Thomas recognised him, Flint reminds himself. He switched back to his native language effortlessly; agreed to leave; touched Flint as long as he could without giving himself away. What more could Flint have asked for?

 _Everything,_ he answers himself. Thomas in his arms, this place left far behind them: being home, safe, alive, together.

Miranda paces between the gate and the car, the same exasperated patience in her expression. If a guard opens the gate instead of Thomas, they’ll have no warning. There’s nowhere to go from here but forward: they’d poked an envelope of cash and the keys to their cabin under the reception door before leaving.

Flint would happily deal with a bear if it meant not having to think _What if he doesn’t come?_ again.

Something rockets through the darkness. Flint jumps, and for a second his hind-brain tells him it’s a bear. He peers at the lump where it’s landed at the bottom of the fence. It’s about the size of a raccoon. Did it fall out of a tree? Is it still alive?

Two feet land next to the lump, with enough impact that Flint feels it through the ground. He looks up, and up, to see Thomas holding his knees and grimacing. Thomas straightens, brushing himself off, and picks up the lump—a bookbag. Miranda goes rushing up to him while Flint stays rooted on the spot. She checks him over and he smiles, taking her chin and tilting it up.

 _I’m fine,_ he uses BSL again.

He and Miranda clasp each other by the forearms, staring long and lovely at each other. Thomas reaches up to brush a thumb over her cheek and Flint sees her shoulders shaking with emotion. She hugs him tightly, her arms flung around his neck.

Thomas’ eyes meet Flint’s in the dark.He’s so pale, he looks like a ghost in the moonlight. Flint forces himself to take a step forward, and then he’s running, crashing into Thomas’ embrace. Thomas wraps Flint up in his arms, crushing them tightly together. Flint chokes through a sob, dragging Thomas closer by his shirt. Thomas’ hands rub firmly over his back.

Flint feels Thomas’ nose on his crown, inhaling deeply before a shuddering breath of relief ruffles his hair. Thomas’ lips brush over Flint’s scalp and Flint’s hands clutch at Thomas’ sides, head burrowing into Thomas’ chest so he can feel Thomas’ heart beating against his cheek. Thomas’ shirt is damp from Flint’s tears. Thomas places another kiss in Flint’s hair, over and over until Flint is sure he’s not going to disappear. Flint tucks his forehead under Thomas’ chin and lets himself breathe, falling into the rhythm of Thomas’ breathing, until his hands unclench and Thomas gently lets him go.

 _We should leave,_ Miranda reminds them. _There’ll be time later._

Thomas blinks curiously at her use of ASL. She opens the passenger door of the car to crank the front seat as far forward as it will go, then opens the back for Thomas. She takes his bag, and she looks surprised.

 _No books?_ she smiles, feeling the weight of the bag.

 _There will be other books,_ Thomas answers, in ASL this time. _Let’s get out of here._

For the first time since Flint’s seen him alive, a haunted expression crosses his face. That spurs Flint on, and he gets in the driver’s seat while Miranda puts the bookbag in the trunk and gets into the back seat with Thomas.

Flint gets his seatbelt on and Miranda taps his shoulder.

 _Pull over to rest when you need to,_ she says.

 _I’m fine,_ he insists. The last thing he feels like doing is sleeping.

 _We didn’t come this far to drive off a cliff,_ she reminds him.

Flint looks at Thomas, who only watches them inquiringly.

 _I’ll be safe,_ he promises them both.

It’s tempting, he admits to himself, to gun the engine all the way to the east coast. But he takes it slow, so nobody will hear the car that drove by the school after midnight, or glimpse the high-beams in the pines. So he won’t have to explain to the rental company how a deer ended up in the grill. They weave through the woods, every bend in the road identical to the last. It takes twice as long as the journey up the mountain did. The twisting route down the steep hills crosses back on itself, a labyrinth designed to keep them in the pines. He takes note of the signs this time, choosing not to read anything ominous into Graveyard Gulch or Slaughterhouse Spring beyond a local flair for the macabre. It keeps him focused, and assures him they’re moving, passing places by, that the clock on the dashboard isn’t ticking toward dawn while they drive in circles. The road was so different on Saturday. In the early hours, the columns of red rocks look like they were stacked by design. Every patch of grass quivers as if some creature has just slipped out of sight. He keeps a sharp eye out for any real wildlife that might cross the two-lane highway. Miranda’s right: no sense putting them in danger now.

The only marker for the Arizona border is a cattle grid and a small signpost. The grid jostles his passengers slightly, and he glances at them in the rear-view mirror. They’ve fallen asleep with their heads together. The sky behind them is beginning to lighten, a fading indigo creeping up from behind the peaks. Flint finds himself glancing at Thomas: he’s not just a silhouette, a reflection in the glass. If Flint were any less pragmatic he’d pull over and take his fill of staring. But he reminds himself the longer he drives, the further away they can be from Mercy Pines when Thomas wakes up.

The hairpin turns down the slopes are far more daunting on the descent. When he’s finally onto the gentle recline of the desert, he relaxes a little. It’s beginning to gain that same haze it had when they first drove through, inverted by the dawn. He drives and drives.

Miranda’s fingers brush his arm, and he catches her eye in the rearview mirror.

 _Coffee?_ she suggests, pointing at a sign for a diner up ahead. Flint flashes her a quick thumbs-up in return.

The sun is over the horizon as he parks, twisting in his seat to watch Miranda wake Thomas. His head lolls on the seat and he blinks heavily, first at the car interior, then Miranda, and finally at Flint. Recognition and realisation dawn on him quickly—not so quickly that Flint doesn’t catch them.

 _Where are we?_ he asks.

 _Arizona,_ Flint tells him, getting his hearing aids out of the glove box.

 _Breakfast?_ Miranda asks.

Thomas rolls a crick out of his neck and nods. His ridiculously long limbs unfold from the back of the car, and he stretches in the morning sun.

The server looks as exhausted as they are, and mildly relieved when she realises Flint is the only one who’s going to vocalise. Flint gets them a table and menus, and she pours them a surprisingly decent coffee. Flint sinks the first cup on the spot and gets an immediate refill. Miranda requests an iced tea, and Flint relays her order. He glances down at the menu and immediately sets his heart on the biggest, greasiest pile of eggs they offer.

 _I’ll have the pancakes_ , Miranda tells him. Flint looks inquiringly at Thomas.

 _Yes, pancakes,_ Thomas repeats hurriedly. After a moment, he adds: _With bacon?_

 _Crispy?_ Flint checks.

Thomas gives him a small, wavering smile. _Please._

Flint nods, resisting the urge to reach across the booth and squeeze his hand.

 _Take as long as you need,_ Miranda tells Thomas. _This can’t be easy._

Thomas shakes his head. _No, it’s not that... it’s just..._

Flint swallows. Does he want to go back? Go his own way from here?

 _Did you learn ASL for me?_ Thomas asks.

 _Learn…? No, we learned it when we came here,_ Flint says.

Thomas cocks his head. _How fast...?_

 _Thomas, we_ ** _live_** _here,_ Miranda explains.

 _Not in Arizona,_ Flint clarifies. _But America._

Thomas looks dumbfounded. _For how long?_

Flint’s hands go still.

 _For ten years,_ Miranda says. _Since you... when we lost you._

_You left?_

_We searched for you,_ Flint insists. **_Please_** _don’t doubt that. It got so bad Alfred filed for a restraining order._

 _Flint tried to break into his house to get the address of wherever they sent you,_ Miranda adds. _I was suing for power of attorney, and I lost because of the scandal._

 _Then her research contract wasn’t renewed,_ Flint says, and he feels the sick rage it once brought them resurface on Thomas’ face.

 _The press were relentless,_ Miranda says. _Flint couldn’t leave his house without some idiot from the tabloids in his face._

 _Because of you and me?_ Thomas asks Flint. Flint nods.

 _The lab in Rochester had a new grant,_ Miranda reminds Thomas. _They were offering tenure._

 _Tenure!_ Thomas gives her a proud smile.

Miranda looks at the ceiling, flustered but pleased. The server comes back and Flint orders their breakfast, gratefully taking the refill of his coffee.

 _I took him with me,_ Miranda nods at Flint. _We were in America when we found out…_

Thomas looks between them when she trails off.

 _They told us you were dead,_ Flint says.

Miranda recoils as he says it. Flint doesn’t want to pull his punches.

 _Who…?_ Thomas frowns. _How?_

 _Alfred, and Peter,_ Flint tells him. _They said you took your life, and that the funeral had already taken place in England. Peter said it was better that we weren’t there._

Thomas runs his hands through his hair and sets his elbows down on the table. _You thought I was_ ** _dead…?_**

 _Until Thursday,_ Flint says. _Please, you have to know that_ ** _nothing_** _would have stopped us, if we’d believed…_

Thomas nods. He takes a deep breath. _You’ve been in America all this time?_

 _On the east coast,_ Flint says.

 _I thought…_ Thomas shakes his head. He’s interrupted by the server bringing breakfast, with crispy bacon as requested for Thomas and a staggering quantity of scrambled eggs for Flint. Thomas makes short work of his plate, and Flint gets through most of his before admitting defeat. Miranda’s a little slower with her pancakes, but she’s clearly in for the long haul. Flint gets her another iced tea.

With food in his system, it’s somehow even stranger that Thomas is sitting right across from him, wiping maple syrup from the corner of his mouth. Flint shifts and his knee brushes against Thomas, who glances up. They do nothing for a moment but marvel at it.

Miranda sets her plate aside, and the server clears their table. Flint thanks her, and she keeps the coffee coming.

 _So…_ Thomas looks between them. _You got married?_

Flint double-takes. Miranda’s eyebrows shoot up. Thomas frowns at the rings on their hands.

 _Oh!_ Miranda shakes her head. _No, we bought these on Friday. Since we were coming to the school as parents…_

 _I’m not upset,_ Thomas watches in puzzlement as Flint tugs the ring off. _I couldn’t have asked for anything more than you two together, taking care of each other…_

 _We’re still…_ Flint hesitates.

 _We were together,_ Miranda says. _Loosely speaking._

 ** _Were?_** Thomas inquires. _Forgive me for prying…_

 _James is seeing someone,_ Miranda says, and Flint’s stomach drops. It— _Silver_ —was going to come up sooner or later. Maybe it’s better that Miranda ripped the band-aid off.

 _Don’t look like that,_ Thomas says kindly. _Is he awful?_

 _He’s lovely,_ Miranda grins. Flint can feel himself turning red.

 _He’s the one that found out you were alive,_ Flint says.

 _Does he have a name?_ Thomas asks.

 _John Silver,_ Flint says. He takes out his phone and shows Thomas a picture. Thomas smiles, studying it.

 _Fuck, I should text him,_ Flint realises. _Do you mind…?_

 _Tell him we’re safe,_ Miranda says. _And Thomas, you should know: technically,_ ** _we’re_** _still married._

Thomas laughs in surprise. _Well, that’s something._

Flint opens his inbox to find half a dozen emails from Silver. The messages are short, offering encouragement for the search and dozens of photos of the cat. He types a reply, explaining that they have Thomas safe and freed, and they’re on the road back to Tucson. _I love you,_ he writes. _I can’t wait for you to meet him._

When he looks up, Miranda is explaining: _I couldn’t file for being widowed._ _Of course, if you want a clean slate, we could…_

 _Actually,_ Thomas says. _It might be useful._

He sits up straighter, looking between them both.

 _I have a passport,_ he explains. _But the visa expired years ago._

 _So, if you’re my husband…_ Miranda nods. _We can apply for you to stay._

 _That’s the other problem:_ _I have no money,_ he gives Flint a mischievous grin. _Are you okay to get breakfast?_

 _Of_ ** _course,_** Flint kicks him under the table. _We’re not going to leave you on the side of the road after all this._

Thomas reaches out and squeezes their hands briefly. _I don’t think I said thank you._

 ** _Thomas,_** Miranda admonishes him. _What did you expect?!_

Thomas looks at Flint’s scowl. _Alright, alright._

Flint’s phone buzzes. Silver has texted him: _so glad you’re all safe. tell me when you book flights. i love you too xxx_

He types _I will,_ and looks up to see Thomas explaining:

_I had no money, no way to get my passport, no way out of the Academy. And I thought you were in England…_

Flint’s stomach turns. Yesterday, he’d been so caught up in why Thomas would stay at the Academy. Now, it feels like cruelty to even consider the question. _You don’t have to—_

 _—Let me,_ Thomas interrupts. _I know you’ll want to know._

Flint scowls, but he lets Thomas continue.

 _There was a Mercy clinic in Georgia,_ Thomas’ words slow. _They kept me there for eighteen months, the first time._

Flint swallows. Miranda bites her lip.

 _When they offered me a role at the school, I took it,_ Thomas says. _I got my bearings there, and I got out the moment I could. I made it as far as the nearest town—nobody knew ASL, let alone how to find the two of you. They called the school, and the school sent me back to the clinic. From then on…_ a shadow crosses over Thomas’ face. _I stuck to the script until they’d let me teach again. And having students—if they didn’t have me, they’d have someone who actually_ ** _believed_** _it all. If there was something I could do for them, then that was enough to keep me sane._

None of them speak for a moment, and Thomas exhales heavily.

 _Imagine if I had made my own way out,_ he gives them a small smile. _You might’ve had quite the shock if I showed up on your doorstep._

 _Fucking_ ** _Christ,_** Flint drops his head against the back of the booth. Thomas reaches over and pats his arm warmly.

 _Let’s take you home,_ Miranda rolls her eyes.

 _Not yet,_ Flint scowls. _I need at least three more cups of coffee._


	7. The Difference Between Au Revoir and Adieu

Silver watches the aeroplane move one pixel from Tucson to Atlanta. Staring at it doesn’t make it go any faster. Nor does it make the decision any easier.

He finishes unpacking the groceries, stacks the dishwasher, and takes out the trash. He takes a basket of laundry up to the bedroom and puts it away, keeping a few of his own things aside. The bathroom is already sparkling, and short of changing all the light bulbs, there’s nothing else to do.

He stuffs the clean laundry in his backpack and unplugs his phone charger, winding up the cable and stuffing it in. He grabs his crutch where it’s propped against the wall and heads downstairs.

Ink is sitting on the table, and she chirrups at him when he comes in. Silver sits and smiles at her.

_They’re almost in Atlanta,_ he points at the screen. _See? Not long now._

She glances over, then back at him. He closes the laptop gently and slips it into the backpack before zipping it up.

He puts his wallet in his pocket and checks his phone. The booking confirmation email has come through, and there’s no new messages from Flint. He types a message for Madi.

_hey, i’ve caught some really nasty bug,_ he finishes with a sick emoji. _do you have someone who can replace me for a couple of days?_

_Yeah,_ Madi texts back straight away. _Hope you feel better soon, ok?_

_thanks_ he writes. _sorry to put you out_

_It’s fine,_ Madi says. _Don’t want everyone else catching it_

He sends her a heart and she sends one back. Then he looks at the confirmation email again, and double-checks his passport is in the backpack. Ink rubs against his hand, and he picks her up to cuddle her.

_You be a good girl,_ he tells her.

He leaves his keys in the mailbox on the way out.


	8. What's in the Box?

The lights are off when Flint unlocks the front door. Miranda and Thomas crowd in after him to escape the downpour. Flint pops into the laundry and gets some clean towels, handing them out. Miranda bundles her sodden hair in one, and Thomas scrubs his face.

Ink peers over the top of the stairs at Thomas, and scampers away when she realises how tall he is.

_She’ll come around,_ Flint tells him, getting his boots and coat off.

The place is spotless. It makes him double-take when he turns on the kitchen lights.

He laughs breathlessly for a second because Thomas is going to think he’s _neat._ Silver must have wanted to give a good impression—maybe the impression that they live in a hotel. Miranda looks bemused when she enters, and Flint’s a little offended that she’s so surprised.

_Silver’s been busy,_ she comments. _Where is he?_

Flint shrugs, and checks his phone. Silver didn’t mention anything in his last message.

_Swimming?_ Flint guesses. He sends a text: _We’re home, when are you coming back?_

Thomas ducks through the doorway, looking around slowly. _It’s lovely,_ he says.

Flint is momentarily struck wordless from the way the rain has glued Thomas’ shirt to his chest. God, no wonder he scaled that fence so easily.

_We’ll get you some more clothes tomorrow,_ Flint promises. _And a phone._

_You don’t need to buy me new things,_ Thomas insists.

_We absolutely do,_ Miranda says. She kisses Flint’s cheek and tells him: _I’m going to shower. Give him a tour._

Flint feels himself flush. Of course it took less than a day for the two of them to gang up on him again. Miranda disappears to the top floor.

_Well, downstairs is mostly just the entrance and the laundry,_ he explains to Thomas. _This is… the kitchen…_

Thomas nods. The fact is exceedingly obvious, because they’re standing in the kitchen. _The lounge is through here…_

Thomas goes ahead of him, and Flint has to reach around him to get the lights. In spite of the neatness, Flint is hyper-conscious of everything: the chaise part of the couch that he’d always thought would be long enough for Thomas to stretch out on. Which throw blanket might be his favourite. Does he approve of the light? He always insisted on more light. Flint should get a lamp.

Thomas zeroes in on the bookshelf, and Flint chuckles to himself. His fingers twitch like he’s going to take out some of the new books: Flint almost moves forward to recommend the ones he thinks Thomas will like best. Thomas raises an eyebrow at the shelf of well-loved sci-fi novels.

_Silver’s?_ he grins.

For a moment, Flint forgets he isn’t signing the BSL for _stars._

_Yes, they’re his,_ Flint says. Thomas investigates them closely, fingers skimming along the spines as though he can glean something of Silver’s character from them. He moves to the next set of shelves, and stops before going very far. He reaches out tentatively, slipping one of the books out and running his fingers over the red leather cover.

Flint’s heart stops when he realises what it is.

_You kept it,_ Thomas says, a faint smile on his face. He turns over the cover to read the inscription, written in his own hand.

_We never let you go,_ Flint says. _We thought we lost you, but we never forgot you._

Thomas thumbs through the pages, worn soft with age.

_You thought we gave up on you,_ Flint guesses, when Thomas finally looks up. _That we stopped trying to find you._

Thomas casts his eyes up to the ceiling before looking back at Flint. _I’m sorry._

_God, don’t be sorry,_ Flint swallows. _We didn’t know. If I’d thought for a_ ** _moment_** _you were alive..._

Actually saying it makes him choke up again. Thomas gently puts Meditations back on the shelf.

_I thought maybe you’d moved on,_ Thomas says. _I imagined you being too happy to think of me._

_I_ ** _never_** _stopped thinking of you,_ Flint tells him.

_I see that,_ Thomas says. _I’m glad you found someone. I want you to be loved._

Flint nods slowly. _I couldn’t, for a long time._

_I’m looking forward to meeting him,_ Thomas says. _I suspect we have some things in common._

_He’ll be back soon,_ Flint says, touching his pocket. His phone hasn’t buzzed.

Thomas looks at the television. _Still a size queen, I see._

Flint splutters. _That’s just how big they are now!_

_I’m joking,_ Thomas grins. _We had television. I’m up to date on Law and Order._

Flint shakes his head in disbelief.

_I wasn’t abducted by aliens,_ Thomas reminds him.

_It felt like it,_ Flint admits.

_I know,_ Thomas hugs him again, kissing his forehead. Flint looks at the rain beating against the window, as heavy as someone tossing buckets of water at the house. He hopes Silver hasn’t been caught in it.

Thomas shifts, arching to look behind Flint. Flint turns to see big blue eyes peeking out from under the couch.

_Who’s this?_ Thomas grins.

_Ink,_ Flint says. _She’s still a baby._

Thomas crouches, holding out his fingers. Ink goggles at him, so Thomas lays flat on his stomach, elbows propped up. Now he’s not so big, Ink cautiously approaches. Thomas’ eyes are sparkling, his whole face crinkling in joy when she bops her tiny nose on his fingertips.

Miranda appears in the doorway, dry and wearing pyjamas. She watches Thomas befriending Ink for a while, and pulls Flint into a companionable hug.

_Tea?_ Flint offers. Miranda and Thomas agree, and Flint goes to boil the kettle. He opens the cupboard and blinks at how well-stocked it is. He takes a tin of tea—Silver even turned all the labels forward—and sends another text.

_You didn’t have to go shopping,_ he writes, with a smiley-face. _Thank you for tidying up._

He pauses, scrolling back up. Silver’s last message was two hours ago, when the plane landed. Maybe he’s swimming late. Two hours isn’t the longest he’s been at the gym, although he usually texts before going. Flint shivers, and tells himself it’s the residual chill of the rain. He should have taken a towel for himself when they came in.

Then he frowns. If he remembers right, Silver’s trunks had been drying next to the towels.

While he waits for the tea to brew, he messages Madi.

_Is Silver with you?_

_No?_ she replies. _He called in sick for the rest of the week_

Thomas and Miranda are watching him. _Excuse me for a minute,_ he asks, and darts upstairs.

Everything is so tidy, it’s hard at first to tell what’s missing. Silver’s clothes are in the wardrobe, but his phone charger is gone, and so is his crutch. There’s only one toothbrush in the bathroom: Flint’s.

_Fuck!_ he rifles through the cupboards, and it’s not there.

Maybe he threw it out in his cleaning frenzy, and hasn’t taken a fresh one. Flint tries to convince himself that’s all it is.

He opens a video call with Silver, but it rings out.

_Where are you?_ he texts Silver. A message pops up on his screen, but it’s from Madi.

_Is everything OK?_

_Do you know where he is?_ Flint asks.

_I’ll call him now,_ Madi texts. Three minutes later: _Nothing. Did something happen?_

Flint tries to explain in a flurry of messages: she knows who Thomas was— _is_ —so that’s a start. The rest of it seems unbelievable as he types it, but he gets her up to speed. She takes a moment before replying.

_You think he took off?_ she asks.

Flint stares at the message. He hadn’t thought anything beyond the panic of _he’s gone,_ the memories of Thomas’ original disappearance fresh on his mind all weekend.

Does he think Silver took off? Why? Where?

_Do you?_ he asks Madi. Would he? Has he said he wanted to? Is it something he talks about at work?

_He’s not picking up my calls,_ Madi says. _Do you want me to come over, or would that be too much tonight?_

_Come over,_ he answers immediately.

He stands stock-still in the bathroom for another minute, then realises how long he’s been upstairs. Miranda looks up when he appears, and Thomas twists in his chair.

_He’s gone somewhere, hasn’t he?_ Miranda asks.

Panic finally drops through Flint like a stone. He leans hard against the counter, his breath coming shorter and faster. His hands are too clenched to reply: it’s all he can manage to nod.

Maybe one of them says something, but he’s stuck staring at the floor. If he tries to move, it will be to charge out into the storm, searching the streets.

Miranda’s hands come to rest on his shoulders. She eases them down with a firm touch, then her fingers move to tilt his chin up.

_We’ll find him,_ she says. _Come and sit._

She steers Flint into a chair. Thomas is frowning. He asks: _Is this because of me?_

_No,_ Flint answers, at the same time as Miranda says: _Probably._

_Has he ever done this before?_ Thomas asks.

_No,_ Flint admits.

Thomas nods grimly, as if he agrees with Miranda’s assessment.

_Madi’s coming over,_ Flint says. _To help find him._

He half-stands, with the instinct to straighten the place up for a guest. Miranda tugs him back down, and he remembers the house is immaculate.

_He got everything ready,_ Flint realises. _To start over._

He once promised he wouldn’t give Silver reason to run. He thinks of the box, hidden in a drawer full of letters. Maybe Silver found it while he was tidying: maybe that’s what made him flee. If Flint hadn’t hidden it, it might have shown Silver there was room in Flint’s heart for Thomas and Silver. Not only room—that having one of them back only to lose the other was an intolerable torment.

He’s running the same circles in his head. The circles he ran to the point of madness ten years ago. He glances at Miranda, who clearly recognises it.

_So…_ Thomas asks. _Who’s Madi?_

_Silver’s best friend,_ Flint explains. _I’m sorry. You’re probably feeling overwhelmed._

Thomas shrugs. _Everything’s overwhelming. I hadn’t seen a cat in ten years._

Flint gawks at him. _You haven’t—_

Thomas holds up a hand. _What I mean is: yes, I’d like to meet your friends. I’d very much like to meet John Silver, so if there’s something I can do to help track him down…_

_Aren’t you exhausted?_ Flint asks.

_Aren’t you?_ Thomas raises an eyebrow. _I slept in the car, and on the flights. Right now, the idea of closing my eyes is inconceivable._

Flint nods, chewing on his lip. Thomas is right. He’d forgotten how often that was the case.

The doorbell flashes. Flint practically knocks over his chair going to get it.

Madi’s shoulders are splattered with rain when he greets her. She gives him a brief, firm hug.

_We’ll work this out,_ she says, in the rough ASL she’s gleaned from him and Silver.

Flint guides her upstairs, rummaging through his duffel bag for hearing aids. Madi introduces herself to Miranda and Thomas while he switches them on.

‘There,’ he says, signing for Thomas and Miranda’s benefit. ‘Thank you for coming so late.’

‘I called him again on the way over,’ Madi says, enunciating carefully. ‘Still nothing.’

‘He might be hurt,’ Flint suggests. ‘In the storm, if he fell…’

‘You said it looks like he packed before he left,’ Madi reminds him. ‘I think he’s just being stupid.’

Flint lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head.

‘Is there anywhere you think he might be?’ Madi asks. ‘Anywhere he’s mentioned?’

‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ Flint says.

Madi sighs heavily. ‘There’s no point going anywhere until we’re sure, and we’re only going to be sure when he answers his fucking phone.’

‘Any idea how to make that happen?’ Flint asks.

‘We just keep trying,’ she says.

Flint tries a video call again. When it rings out, Madi tries on her phone.

Flint attempts a third time. The call rejects suddenly this time.

‘He’s seeing them,’ Madi narrows her eyes. ‘He’s just not answering.’

This time, instead of hanging up on the voicemail, she snarls: ‘John Silver, if you don’t pick up your phone and tell us where you are right now I will _hunt_ you.’

She adds: ‘Your boyfriend is worried sick. Don’t do this to us.’

Flint paces a circuit of the room. The other three watch him. He gets out his phone again: still nothing.

_Please tell me you’re safe,_ he writes.

Ink butts her head against his leg. She weaves in and out between his ankles, staring up at him. When he reaches down to pet her, she bats him beseechingly with her paw.

_Your dinner!_ he realises. He gets her bowl and fills it while she does her best to trip him over. When he sets the bowl down, she jumps onto her hind legs to hurry it along. Once she’s happily eating, Flint looks at his phone again.

_i’m ok_

All the air leaves Flint’s lungs at once, relief surging through him.

And then: _i’m sorry_

He fumbles with the phone as he types: _I just want you home_

Everyone is looking at him. It must show on his face that Silver’s replied. _He’s not saying where he is,_ he tells Thomas and Miranda. He shows Madi the screen so she’s caught up.

Silver doesn’t message again for a few minutes. When he does, all he says is: _i can’t_

_Where are you?_ Flint writes.

Nothing.

More nothing.

Ink finishes eating and slinks under the table to investigate Thomas’ feet. Madi taps her phone against her leg restlessly. Miranda has moved her chair around to show Thomas how a smartphone works.

Flint feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin. His thumb hovers over the screen, and when nobody’s watching him, he types:

_I can’t lose you._

He doesn’t press send right away. Another minute of silence goes by. Then he sends it.

Madi rings again: Silver ends the call. Enough time passes that Flint thinks to offer Madi something to drink. She accepts a cup of tea. She shows Flint her screen, where she’s written: _So what was the plan when your sick leave ran out?_

An ellipsis appears on her screen, flashing on and off as Silver types and deletes something.

Madi growls in frustration and dials again. She leaves the phone on the table, and all of them startle when they realise Silver has picked up. She slams the phone to her ear.

‘Where the _fuck_ are you?’ is her first question. Flint dances from foot to foot, repressing the urge to snatch the phone out of her hands and yell the same question at Silver.

Madi says: ‘I’m at your house, where _you_ should be.’

Then: ‘Yes, he’s here.’

Flint moves forward, then stills. He gets out of Madi’s space, following her lips as she argues with Silver.

‘They all are. They’re fine, apart from freaking out about you disappearing.’

A pause.

‘You _did.’_

Another.

‘Silver, please. At least let us know where you are.’

She rolls her eyes.

‘I’m already mad,’ Madi says.‘Tell me where.’

Flint watches shock overtake anger on her face.

‘Montreal, _Canada?!’_

Flint sits down hard. Miranda taps his arm.

_Montreal...?_ Flint tells them.

_Good fucking lord,_ Miranda says.

‘And when are you planning on coming back?’ Madi asks. She glares at the ceiling.‘Silver. _Silver._ If you hang up on me, I swear I will...’

Madi stops, because Flint is on his feet. He puts his phone in his pocket and picks up his duffel bag.

Thomas is the first one out of his seat, grabbing Flint’s arm.

_Don’t,_ he says. _I know why you want to, but don’t._

‘Whoa, _no,’_ Madi crams the phone against her shoulder to come after him. ‘Didn’t you tell me you’ve been traveling since midnight last night?’

‘I napped,’ Flint mutters.

_‘Shut up,’_ Madi snaps at her phone. ‘Flint, you can _not_ drive to Montreal right now. You don’t even have a car.’

‘Ask him,’ Flint says. ‘Will he come back on his own?’

Madi asks. She raises her eyebrows at the answer.

‘Will you? When?’

She narrows her eyes.

_‘Soon?_ Not good enough, John Silver.’

A pause.

‘You think I can stop him?’ Madi is asking the phone. ‘Maybe you can sit in your shitty hotel room and _worry about where he is_ for a while. See how it feels.’

Flint tries to dart around Thomas to the stairs, and Thomas slides easily to block him.

‘How’s this?’ Madi is looking at him while she talks into the phone. ‘If I call first thing tomorrow and you’re not in this country, I _will_ be coming to find you.’

Her eyes are blazing as she says: _‘Then you had better get on a fucking bus.’_

She hangs up, and joins Thomas in herding Flint back into the kitchen. Miranda is still sitting, looking unimpressed with his antics.

‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ Flint says.

‘No, _I_ will,’ Madi insists. ‘It wasn’t an empty threat. And honestly, I don’t think he could face you right now.’

Flint feels himself crumble at that. He’s been moving for so many days that stopping feels like giving up. He sinks against the wall.

_Get some sleep,_ Madi suggests. _Help Thomas settle in. We’ll get him back._

Flint scrubs a hand over his face, and before he can stop, the words spill out: _I just want him to_ ** _be_** _back._

It’s a selfish and impractical thing to say, and he immediately wants to cry.

Miranda starts toward him, but he shakes it off and gets to his feet.

‘Thank you, Madi,’ he draws a deep breath. ‘For coming over, and for helping. I can’t thank you enough.’

‘He’s my friend too,’ Madi says. She gives him a hug, squeezing tightly. ‘And he's lucky I like driving. Will you be okay tonight?’

Flint nods.

‘I’ll stay in touch,’ she assures him.

_It was good to meet you,_ she signs to Thomas and Miranda. _I’m sorry it’s at such a bad moment._

_It’s alright,_ Miranda smiles. _Another time._

Thomas gives her a friendly wave.

‘Madi; before you go,’ Flint remembers. ‘There’s something you should see.’

He takes her to the lounge and opens the drawer full of letters. He shows her the box.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ she asks.

‘Yeah,’ Flint’s throat goes tight. ‘I meant to show you anyway, and ask if it was a bad idea...’

‘If you’re still asking me this, after the stunt he’s just pulled...’ Madi shrugs. ‘You probably know the answer.’

She kisses his cheek and bids him goodnight.

Flint finds Thomas and Miranda talking in the kitchen. They both watch him as he picks up his bag again, but relax as they realise he’s only putting his hearing aids away.

_I’m sorry,_ Flint says. _This… wasn’t how I expected tonight to go._

_It wasn’t how we expected our_ ** _weekend_** _to go,_ Miranda reminds him.

_I just don’t understand why he’d…_ Flint can’t even finish saying it.

Miranda sighs _. I do._

Flint stares at her. _What...?_

_I understand,_ Miranda repeats. _The two of you... it was difficult, sometimes. You had such_ ** _intensity_** _together: you still do. It’s like a world without shadows. It felt like if I came too close, it might burn._

_Miranda, you know that’s not true,_ Thomas says. _You know we adore you._

_I knew,_ Miranda presses. _But you cannot deny that what_ ** _we_** _had never compared to what you two share. I don’t resent it. I’m saying that Silver has reason to be intimidated by it. This is new to him. Thomas was_ ** _legendary_** _to him, and suddenly he’s real. This is real. Sooner or later, you will need to reckon with his place in this._

Thomas and Flint don’t reply, so she continues:

_That starts now: since I‘m exhausted, I’m going to sleep on the couch. Perhaps Thomas should take the spare bed._

She gives each of them a hug and heads to the lounge. Flint shows Thomas upstairs, stopping in the hall when he realises they really do need to pick a room.

_Miranda’s right,_ Thomas says. _Best if I sleep in the spare room. Complications aside, I’m looking forward to spreading as wide as I can on that queen-sized mattress and sleeping until noon._

There’s a part of Flint—a part that’s been awake for most of the last two days—that can’t bear to let Thomas out of his sight.

_I’ll be right next door,_ Thomas reads his mind. _I’m not going anywhere further than that._

Thomas reaches out, smoothing the lines on Flint’s brow. Flint rests his cheek in Thomas’ palm, breathing in the smell of him.

_I probably need a shower,_ Flint realises.

_You needed a shower twelve hours ago,_ Thomas tells him. _You’re absolutely ripe._

_Fucking hell_ , Flint sighs. _What a mess._

He might be talking about himself.

_I know you’re scared,_ Thomas says. _There’s no map for dealing with this, darling._

Surely Flint should be the one comforting Thomas, after the hell he’s been through. But Thomas is certain, as Miranda said he would be, blazing with that same confidence Flint first fell in love with.

_He’ll come back,_ Thomas smiles. _We all come back in the end, don’t we?_


	9. Someone Sad from 1982

Silver pulls at a loose thread in his sleeve. He twists it around his fingertip, creating bloodless lines in his skin as the hem unravels.

He will go when the rain lets up. It’s two miles back to the bus station. No sense walking in the drizzle, when the sidewalks are slippery and the damp gets under his skin.

His phone rings. He watches it buzz across the table, but before it rings out he grabs it and answers.

‘I’m on my way, Madi,’ he tells her.

‘How far are you?’ she asks. Silver tries to ignore the sound of the car engine in the background.

‘Have you left Montreal?’ Madi asks.

‘I’m going to,’ Silver says. He stares out the miserable little window of his hotel room, which faces directly onto a multi-level parking lot. The concrete is stained with rain.

‘Bullshit,’ Madi snaps.

‘You don’t have to drive here,’ Silver tells her. ‘It’s six hours.’

‘Closer to four now. I’m already in New Hampshire.’

‘You already _left?’_

’How’s it feel?’ and Silver can _hear_ her eyebrow raising.

‘Madi, please don’t drive up here—‘

‘—to what? Get my best friend during a crisis?’ Madi interrupts. ‘I know you. You didn’t get on the bus and you’re not going to.’

‘I _was_ going to…’

‘It’s okay,’ Madi’s voice softens. ‘It’s okay, alright? We can just talk.’

Silver leans against the wall. His throat gets tighter. ‘Alright.’

‘Pick somewhere nice for lunch,’ Madi tells him. ‘I always wanted to see Old Montreal.’

That’s easier than getting the bus. In four hours, the drizzle has cleared up and he can wander down to the port, away from the bus station. He goes slowly, weaving through the busiest streets. Four bars need a bartender; two cafés need a dishwasher; one place wants a barista. He scans them without meaning to. An old habit in a new city.

He chooses a bistro and texts Madi the address. The sun has returned and turned everything sticky-warm, so he gets a beer and waits.

He’d swear he can hear the guttural roaring of Madi’s Charger from the moment it crosses the border. He certainly knows when it’s down the street, before heads start turning at the eye-searing yellow paint job. Silver smiles in spite of himself.

The smile drops the moment she finds his face in the bistro. She storms up to him and he’s mostly out of his seat in terror when they collide. Her hug pins his arms to his sides. She squeezes tighter than is comfortable, which he probably deserves.

‘You fucking _jackass!’_ she grabs his shoulders and shakes him before depositing him back in the chair. ‘I can’t believe you called in sick like you’d be back on fucking _Thursday.’_

The guilt digs its way through Silver’s belly as Madi sits opposite him. He flicks the label of his beer bottle, but his thumbnail’s too bitten-down to catch properly. He glances at the table, around the room, and back to Madi’s expectant face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles, already knowing it’s not enough.

‘For which parts?’ she narrows her eyes at him.

‘I didn’t mean to make you drive to Canada,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to put you out.’

‘Put me out,’ she repeats.

‘At work.’

‘You’re apologising for calling in sick forever,’ she states.

You’d find someone,’ Silver can’t look at her as he says it.

‘I’d _find—‘_ Madi doesn’t finish the sentence, because a waiter comes over with menus. Madi orders them each a beer, her voice perfectly level.

‘I’m just a barista,’ he reminds her. ‘You’d get a replacement.’

Her eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘Hm,’ is all she says.

Silver itches to fill the silence, but he doesn’t.

‘You’ve done this before,’ Madi says.

It’s not a question. He nods.

‘More than once,’ she guesses.

He half-shrugs. ‘I’m not proud of it.’

‘That’s it?’ she asks. ‘You abandon everyone who cares about you, but at least you feel bad about it afterwards.’

‘What else was I meant to do?’

‘Not leave! Not just vanish into thin air when things got complicated with your boyfriend!’

‘They’re not complicated,’ Silver says. ‘Not anymore.’

‘Christ on a fucking crutch,’ Madi mutters. ‘That’s what you’re saying. I’d find a replacement. _You’re_ replaceable.’

The waiter returns with their beer, saving Silver from answering. Madi orders a croque monsieur—did she even look at the menu?—so Silver asks for the same.

Madi drinks her beer without breaking eye contact.

‘You still work for me,’ she tells him.

‘Fine,’ Silver mumbles.

‘You’re still part of the campaign. Still my friend. Still your cat’s favourite person. Still a lot of things to a lot of people.’

Silver’s mouth tries to form the word ‘fine,’ but his voice dies in his throat. He’s glad for the interruption when their lunch arrives.

‘Flint’s going to want to know why you left him,’ Madi says, a little too lightly.

Silver rips a piece from his sandwich and nibbles it. ‘I’d only have been in the way.’

‘Did he say anything to make you think that?’ she’s skeptical, but her voice has an edge of concern.

‘No,’ Silver admits. ‘But there’s no need to let it get to that.’

Madi’s getting a look in her eye like she’s going to scold him for not eating. He takes a bigger bite. It’s delicious, in spite of how sick the conversation is making him feel.

‘So this isn’t really you martyring yourself, is it?’ Madi glares at him. ‘You’re hurting him before he hurts you.’

‘I didn’t do it to hurt him,’ Silver insists. ‘I did it because I love him.’

‘You've got a fucked-up way of showing it,’ she says.

‘Isn’t that what they say? If you love someone, let them go?’

‘ _They_ are full of shit,’ Madi retorts. ‘He doesn’t _want_ you to let him go. You _know_ that.’

Silver sighs, staring at the ceiling for a moment. He’s not going to cry in a fucking bistro. He’s not.

‘The way he loves Thomas… that’s _it,_ you know? For a one-in-a-million chance at having that back—I’m a lot of things, but I’m not so selfish to deny him that.’

‘Those are your choices? Denying him or disappearing?’

‘It’s going to be difficult,’ Silver says. ‘I wanted him to have one less thing to worry about.’

‘All he’s _doing_ is worrying about you!’ Madi says. ‘Do you realise that? He was going to pieces thinking he’d lost you too.’

Silver smooths his beard over with his knuckles, covering his mouth. There’s nothing that sounds good enough in his head to answer that. He suspects Madi will wait as long as she has to in this bistro—in this city—until he agrees to leave with her.

She drives him back to the hotel, and comes up to the room with him. Silver hasn’t failed to notice she’s not letting him out of her sight. The room is dim and crowded with furniture, and smells like wet laundry. It was last decorated by someone sad from 1982. He’s not ashamed of it, exactly: maybe Madi will decide that if he’s content to live like this, he’s not worth dragging back.

She taps on her phone while he puts everything in his backpack. It doesn’t take long: there wasn’t much in it to begin with, and he didn’t exactly unpack. He has the shampoo bottle in his hand before he realises he’d only be stealing them because this is the kind of hotel where that’s what you do. Of all the things, that’s what he doesn’t want Madi seeing. He puts the bottles back on the counter.

‘Booked us a suite in a boutique place tonight,’ Madi says. ‘You’re paying for it.’

‘Sure,’ Silver agrees. He zips up the backpack and puts the hotel key in his pocket.

‘How long would you have stayed here?’ she asks.

Silver looks around the room. ‘A week, maybe less. There’s always someone needing a roommate.’

He slings the backpack onto his shoulders, and sticks his crutch through a loop on the side. Madi watches it all. He knows she’s adding it all up: how easily he packs his life on his back; how quickly he can insinuate himself somewhere new. He tries to let her disappointment slide over him, but some of it sticks, and some of it stings.

‘Is it always this easy?’ she asks.

It hits him like a blow.

‘It’s never easy,’ he tells her.

‘Why do you do it, then?’

There’s a fist around his throat, invisible, squeezing. Madi’s hand slips into his. Her fingers are warm, and he’s suddenly aware of how clammy his own are. He tries to pull away, but she holds him firm.

‘Come home,’ she says. ‘We need you.’

‘You don’t need me,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m nobody.’

‘You’re fucking stupid, is what you are,’ Madi drawls. ‘We’re not arguing about this. It’s a vacation for today, then we’re going home.’

And from the moment he checks out, it turns into a vacation. Madi drags him to all the sights, and pulls him out of his sulking with poutine. They take a selfie on the clock tower and before he can stop her she’s texted it to Flint with the message _Got him._

He doesn’t text Flint until that night, once Madi’s settled down at her end of the kitschy suite. She’d bounced on the mattress when they checked in, and tried to tempt him to do the same before he’d insisted his leg would literally fall off if he tried.

_i’m sorry i scared you,_ he writes. _we’ll be back tomorrow_

Flint doesn’t reply for a while, which Silver probably deserves. When he does, it’s only: _Thank you_

Silver buries his face in the pillow. It’s as soft as a cloud, and by the time he comes up for air, it’s more than a little damp. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, and hopes Madi can’t hear him sniffle. All he sends back is an _x,_ and Flint replies quickly this time, with an _x_ of his own.

The rain returns on Wednesday morning, chasing them down from the north. It drums on the windows of the Charger as Madi coasts along the I-89. Silver rests his forehead on the glass. The engine purrs beneath them.

‘What’s he like?’ he asks Madi. Then he wonders why it wasn’t the first thing he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘It’s hard to assess a man who’d been in a cult the day before. Tall?’

Silver curls in on himself a little deeper. Lightning flashes in the corner of his eye, storming somewhere further west than they are.

‘He had to physically stop Flint from coming after you that night,’ she comments. ‘So he’s big enough to do that.’

Silver’s not sure if there was an answer to his question that would have made him feel better. That definitely wasn’t it.

‘You’ll see for yourself,’ she adds. ‘When we get home.’

‘Yeah,’ he answers, chewing on the edge of a fingernail.

The storm dances closer, and he turns his head to watch it. Maybe he hears thunder. Maybe it’s just the engine.


	10. In Which Nobody Is Pushed into the Sea

Flint sits at the edge of the wharf. The waves tumble over each other, caught in the changing of the tide. The sea is stained by the rain, running in mottled, opaque patterns out to the horizon. Winds stir up white caps of foam. When the water gets dark like this, it’s easy to mistake the flickers of movement for a whale. But it’s the wrong season for them: there are only shadows of the storm clouds overhead. The currents hurry around each other like great underwater beasts: Flint sights a black one, five miles wide; a narrow green one; a grey one that sulks close to the shore.

He’d chosen this place on a whim; on the realisation that in spite of Madi’s promises, no sense of Flint’s could confirm that Silver was any closer than he’d been two days ago. Silver had removed himself from the townhouse so thoroughly that in spite of his books still on the shelf, his clothes still in the wardrobe, Flint cannot picture him there with Miranda and Thomas and Ink.

So here he is: someplace he can believe Silver will return.

It hasn’t rained, but the thunderheads have threatened all day. The wharf is desolate. The masts of moored boats sway uncomfortably, and a breeze is tugging threads of his hair loose from its tie. He should cut it, he thinks, before the weather gets warmer. He wonders what Silver will think of it; what Thomas might think. It’s an odd enough comfort to make him smile—that each of them might have something to say about how he wears his hair. The jumper he’s wearing is one of Silver’s favourites. It hadn’t occurred to him this morning, although the choice seems obvious now. It’s unlikely he’ll have many more opportunities to wear it before autumn. Maybe Silver will see it then.

Thomas has begun to reorient himself, settling into the rhythm of the house with more enthusiasm than either Flint or Miranda had expected. He’s not precisely the same: he thinks before he speaks, and he takes time observing his surroundings. Only once or twice has he stalled, overwhelmed and exhausted. He used to be more forthright when he needed something, but whether that’s a mark of age, a mark of Mercy Pines, or an unwarranted reluctance to burden them, Flint can’t tell. But more often he approaches the world with unfailing curiosity after a decade of isolation. Of all the things Flint thought would be lost forever, Thomas’ contagious optimism seemed the likeliest. But here he is, waiting on the wharf and hoping he can have both Thomas and Silver home tonight.

He’s needed this for himself too, he realises: the woods around Mercy Pines were so thick they choked him, and the desert so broad it threatened never to end. Flint needed the sharp salt in the air, the churning and fathomless water. As he knows cardinal directions and antipodean points, Flint knows that from twelve nautical miles—about three times the distance he can see—the water is no longer America. That grey current has crept in that direction, to a pathless place. The place between.

Perhaps he understands what it is that calls Silver away.

The wood shivers under his palm in an uneven rhythm. On a good day it’s invisible to the eye—Silver’s distinct gait. But through the floor, Flint can feel it unmistakably. He should turn and greet Silver. Silver’s approach is slowing, like he might stop, or flee again. Flint runs his thumb into the rut where an iron bolt secures the plank, worn smooth by the elements. He cants his head, just enough to acknowledge Silver’s presence, so that he can watch the last of Silver’s approach in the corner of his eye.

Silver drops his backpack on the wood and clambers awkwardly down to sit beside Flint. He doesn’t say anything immediately. Flint catches the familiar scent of him, and the way the wind picks up his curls. Silver’s hand finds his, lifting it cautiously from the plank and bringing it to cradle in his own. His fingertips follow the veins on the back of his hand, dipping into the grooves between his knuckles before following the ring and middle fingers up to the nails. As Silver turns Flint’s hand over, he coaxes those fingers into curling, not so tightly as to press the tips into Flint’s palm, but Flint recognises the shape it makes. An I and an L combined with Y. He makes it every day.

Silver is mimicking the movement with his own hand, broader fingers closing over Flint’s. His skin is warm and calloused.

Flint draws a deep breath, and then another. When he looks at Silver, Silver is staring at their hands interlocked in their lap. His eyes find the horizon before they meet Flint’s. They’re bloodshot and shining wet, set about with shadows. The contrast makes them a shocking turquoise. For a moment, Flint can’t think of anything else.

Silver reaches up with his free hand and brushes a lock of hair from Flint’s eyes. Flint wants to chase the touch, to lean into it. He does. His nose catches the edge of Silver’s thumb and he pushes against it, into the solid heat of Silver’s palm.

They should work this out before they kiss. There are things they need to say, but none of them fucking matter more than the taste of Silver’s mouth. The possessive curl of his tongue and the desperate faltering of his breath. The strength he grips Flint’s jaw with as their bodies angle together.

Their lips stick slightly when Flint draws away. He touches his forehead to Silver’s, breathing with Silver until the air is stale between them. Silver squeezes his hand, and Flint opens his eyes.

_I’m sorry,_ Silver says. _I didn’t mean to scare you._

_You scared the_ ** _shit_** _out of me,_ Flint tells him. Part of him wants to shove Silver off the wharf, but he knows he’d just dive right in after him.

Silver’s lip trembles. He looks too miserable to do anything besides repeat:

_I’m sorry._

_What did you_ ** _mean_** _to do, if not that?_ Flint asks.

_I wanted…_ Silver’s eyes slide away, then back to Flint. _I wanted to make things easier for you, now that you have him back._

Flint is about to interrupt, but Silver continues:

_I understand if you asked me to come here because you don’t want me at home anymore._

_The_ ** _only_** _thing I want is for you to be home,_ Flint says. _Is it easier for_ ** _you?_** _Us being apart?_

Silver shakes his head, swiping the corners of his eyes.

_I thought it would be better than…_ he hesitates. _Than you telling me to my face that you didn’t—_

_—want you anymore?_ Flint realises.

Silver nods.

_Have I ever said I wouldn’t?_ Flint asks. _I know I left abruptly—_

_—no, it’s not that, I encouraged you to—_

_—but I never meant to make you feel unwanted,_ Flint grabs Silver’s hands. Just so Silver won’t speak for a moment, while he’s shaking so much. Silver squeezes his fingers before letting go.

_He made you happy, alright?_ Silver says. _And I want that. I want you to be happy._

_I_ ** _am_** _happy,_ Flint shakes his head. _I have been, with you._

Silver’s eyes gleam with tears. He doesn’t look like he believes Flint, but he doesn’t argue.

_I’ve lost enough relationships to last me a lifetime,_ Flint says. _I don’t want to lose you too._

_I didn’t think you’d…_ Silver falters. _I didn’t think of it that way._

_Can you imagine for a moment what it felt like, to have one love back only to find the other slipped through my fingers?_ Flint shudders. _I thought..._

_God, I’m sorry_ , Silver says. _I just didn’t want to be in your way._

_You’re not_ ** _in my way,_** Flint insists. _However many ways I have to tell you that, I will._

_But you have him back,_ Silver says. _You don’t need me anymore._

_Of course I still need you. You weren’t just a substitute for him, you realise? I love you as well._

Silver stares at his lap, then out at the sea. He won’t meet Flint’s eye, like he doesn’t want to acknowledge those words. He tugs at the hem of his shirt, worrying a thread there. His shoulders rise and fall, and he sinks into himself before looking at Flint.

_But I’m like this,_ he says. _I run._

_You do,_ Flint says. _You run, and you’re hard to trust sometimes, and you can’t cook to save yourself. And I snore, and I get obsessed with old logbooks, and I don’t do enough to make you feel like you matter to me._

Silver laughs, and that’s what makes the tears spill over. Flint reaches out and wipes one with his sleeve.

_But Christ, Silver, of course I love you,_ Flint tells him. _I love every fucking day with you. The way you make me coffee and the way you talk to the cat. How you pile blankets over us on the couch, and roll your eyes when you eat something good. I love the way you smell after a long day and that little blink you do when you smile. I love how adventurous you are about everything._

_Okay,_ Silver scrubs his nose with his sleeve, making a mess. He nods, like he’s trying to understand. _Okay._

_And maybe Thomas got too big in my memory and that scared you, but I want you to meet him. I want you to meet him_ **_so much._ **

_You said he was like the sun,_ Silver reminds him. _You can see why it’s a lot to live up to._

_If he’s the sun,_ Flint smiles. Silver might be the one to push him off the wharf for this. _Then you’re the stars._

Silver rolls his eyes, which isn’t as effective when his lashes are slicked with tears. He glances down at Flint’s arm. _Does that make you…?_

_No,_ Flint interrupts. _Don’t say it._

Silver’s jaw has a mischievous tick, like it’s taking all his willpower not to mention the tattoo.

_Look,_ Flint says. _I love the two of you. I don’t think I could ever_ ** _stop_** _loving you both._

Silver swallows. _I’ve never done this before, and you all have..._

_I don’t even know what Thomas or Miranda want to do yet,_ Flint confesses. _And we won’t do anything you don’t want to do. But I want you with me._

Silver nods slowly. _It’s just hard to… fit._

_There’s no version of this where you don’t fit,_ Flint tells him.

_But he’s meant to be six foot four, right?_ Silver gives him a small smile.

Flint snorts. _Why don’t you see for yourself?_

Silver chews on the inside of his lip, hesitating before he asks: _What if he doesn’t like me?_

Flint yanks him into a hug, nuzzling Silver’s curls roughly. Silver nestles in the embrace, fingers snagging on Flint’s shirt. For all the things that could scare Silver, this one’s not so bad. Flint can help with that. He can help with the rest of it when it comes.

They go home, eventually, and Silver meets Thomas and Thomas flirts outrageously, and Silver’s a little overwhelmed by Thomas so Miranda has to tell him _he’s like that with everyone._ And Ink crawls all over Silver’s head and scolds him harder than Flint had the heart to. And Flint buys Madi an arrangement of flowers and Thomas starts spending every morning at Queens. And Flint doesn’t open the drawer full of letters again, not yet.

But for a while they stayed by the water, until the stars came out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the bottom of my heart, thank you for sticking with me and with this AU for so long. I've never attempted anything quite like Scrambled and I'm always glad to know someone finds the story meaningful.


End file.
